


through the darkness, rise

by LouPF



Series: TDR 'verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bickering, Cabbage Patch Hobbits, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Bilbo Baggins, Dragons, Dragons are Neutral, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Khuzdul, M/M, Misunderstandings, Orcs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bilbo Baggins, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Slavery, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trolls, Wargs (Tolkien), Whipping, Wounds, and not the sexy kind, does Gandalf have a crush on bilbo? maybe if you squint :), implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: During the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo dies. On the other side, he's met by the Essence of the Universe - and they are not pleased with this turn of events. Deciding to send Bilbo back, they give him two advantages: knowledge, and strength.Bilbo is born as a dragon of the First Age with all the memories of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. First, he has to survive several thousand years as a dragon... and then, when he's finally a hobbit again, he has to deal with keeping his identity secret while traveling with the Company of thirteen dwarves. With guilt eating him up and worry of the future gnawing at his bones, Bilbo sets off for the March of Erebor. He can only hope he won't fall for a certain dwarven king on his way there... again.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Series: TDR 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973791
Comments: 171
Kudos: 794





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! I've been writing this for a few weeks now and as of first posting this prologue, I have 10 extra chapters written (and unedited). I'll be trying to edit and post once or twice a week and work on the rest of the story in the meantime. I'm super excited for this story and would love feedback! 
> 
> Tags and ratings will be changed as new chapters are posted and written :)

The battlefield was a horrifying mess. People of all races were shrieking and roaring, blood – all red, no matter the source, be it dwarven or elven or mannish – splattered across the ground.

Bilbo couldn’t breathe. Ash and dirt stuck to his tongue and throat. He ached, every inch of him, horror and dread numbing anything else. The writhing mass of violence split, and Bilbo pushed through, trying desperately to get away –

A dwarf appeared out of nowhere, knocking him off course while locked in a furious battle with an orc, and Bilbo stumbled, fell against something hard and cold – there was an orcish grunt, something engulfed his head, a flash of excruciating pain –

and nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Light bloomed.

Bilbo opened his eyes groggily.

A person hovered before him, kind and warm, though he could not make out any features beyond a gentle smile. “Oh, little one,” it sighed, and the sound came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “This was never meant to happen… you were not meant to pass.”

He was dead. Somehow, the notion was not bothersome.

“Let’s try this one more time, hm?” The person put a hand to his face, and it was large and warm and soft. “But... I do believe you need an advantage.” Their tone turned humorous, and their hand slid down to cradle his chin. “Or two.” Their fingers trailed down his throat, his chest, splaying out across his belly.

It only felt motherly, in a way. Warm, and intimate. “You will have the gift of knowledge.” A kiss was pressed to his brow. “And a heart full of courage and fierceness.” A kiss to his breast. Then sorrow overcame the voice, and it mourned, “though you shall lose just as much as you gain.” The hands glid across him, like a salve on fevered skin, and he turned to liquid beneath them like a fauntling taking its first bath.

“I am sorry, little one,” the person whispered. “May you forgive me once all this is over.”

And with a breath, they sent him away.

*

The world was cold and cruel when he shattered his egg, and he was young and vulnerable and soft, but his mother’s embrace was warm, and his siblings were kind.


	2. Chapter One

It was a calm morning in the Shire. The sun was warm, and the breeze was light, and it was brewing up to a party the coming night – the kind where ale flows freely, and few go back to their own home.

Bilbo had been incredibly busy the last week, though it had nothing to do with the nice weather. His memory wasn’t what it once was – he supposed millennium would do that to you – but he knew this was the day. When he’d first been born, he’d made sure to remember all he could – every tiny little detail, no matter how important, no matter how clear.

And this was the day. The day everything changed, and everything _would_ change. His pantry was full and the house had been cleaned – his bags were packed and the letters to various people had been written and proofread.

Now he sat on the bench outside of his hobbit-hole, puffing his pipe – and waiting.

Gandalf was right on time, appearing nearly out of the blue, as wizards tend to do. “Ah,” he said, nodding in Bilbo’s direction as he pushed the gate open, “Bilbo Baggins.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, and blew smoke in his face. Gandalf never liked it when he did that. _You are a hobbit now_ , he always said.

 _I’ve always been a hobbit_ , Bilbo always wanted to respond, though he never did.

After waving the smoke away, Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo again, and stood. “I would quite like to remain in the Shire, but I suppose if you insist, I’ll join on this adventure of yours.”

Gandalf stared at him for a brief moment, then chuckled softly and shook his head. “Even though you do not know the stakes?”

“Oh, I do know the stakes.” Bilbo went to his door and opened it, gesturing Gandalf inside. “I have sensed it coming long, now.” He cast Gandalf a solemn glance. “The Darkness is growing. I know it as much as you.” Then, “come along, then. It’s teatime.”

It was true that he had felt it coming, like a great shadow creeping in over his heart. The tides of destiny were crashing in over him, and he would not be able to resist them even if he tried. He was sent here for this purpose alone.

Gandalf’s light expression fell. “Ah,” he said, and stepped inside. “So you have felt it, too. It does not surprise me.” He sat by Bilbo’s table, knees knocking awkwardly into the wood. “Tell me, what else do you know?”

Bilbo smiled to himself as he took the kettle off the stove. “I’ll humour you,” he allowed. “Do tell me of your plans.”

Nothing Gandalf said came as a surprise, of course. Bilbo vaguely remembered not getting nearly as much information the first time around, but it made sense Gandalf would tell him more now. Back then, he was just a hobbit.

Oh, to be just a hobbit. In lonely nights he felt his scales and claws ripple beneath the skin, teeth aching and throat itching. Nowadays he still looked like his old self, though he smelled dragon in his skin and was never been able to acquire respectable hobbit weight – and his nails had always been just a bit too long, and his teeth just a bit too sharp, and his senses just a bit _more_. The Shire accepted him, of course, else he would not have stayed – but he missed his old body a lot. Being a born dragon and bearing wings for a few thousand years had not changed the core of his heart.

“Then I will send them here,” Gandalf said, tearing Bilbo from his thoughts.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed. “All thirteen of them.”

Gandalf narrowed his eyes.

Bilbo smiled serenely.

“One day, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf muttered, “you will tell me your knack of knowing what isn’t said.”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo allowed. “But that day is not today.” He stood, then took Gandalf’s cup and wiped the table. “Now, please excuse me and go bother someone else. I have a feast to prepare.”

*

Bilbo was nervous. It had been thousands of years since he last saw the dwarves. They were but a faint memory – he knew there were thirteen, among them Thorin Oakenshield, and he liked them well enough. The few memories he still had of them were fond, for the most part… except for at the very end. He still recalled the confusion of that last battle with shudders and fright.

At the beginning of this life, memories of them had warmed him on cold nights. He’d mourned when he realized he had forgotten their faces, much less their personalities.

Seeing them again, now? He wasn’t sure how to behave, much less what to say or do.

The living room table had been decked well enough to feed ten well-off hobbits, which was probably just a little bit too much for thirteen starving dwarves. No matter: Bilbo had exhausted his wallets and fortunes to get this food bought, and he would not let it go to waste.

The letter Bilbo had written to Hamfast stated he could take any excess food either way. It would make the old hobbit quite happy.

When nightfall approached, Bilbo sat patiently by the front door, waiting for the first knock. It might be either Dwalin or Balin, but he couldn’t quite recall, so he waited with bated breath.

His heart beat fast when the first knock resounded in the hall. He got up, staring hard at the doorknob.

This was it. This was all he has been called back for. This was what he had been told to do.

Bilbo drew a deep breath.

He wasn’t one to disappoint.

He opened the door.

A thousand feelings rushed through him all at once at the oh-so-familiar sight of _Dwalin_ , bald and tattooed and muscular, looking bored and slightly frustrated.

A choked “oh” slipped out of Bilbo, and Dwalin turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. He had more piercings than Bilbo remembered.

“Dwalin,” said Dwalin, and bowed at the waist, “at your service.”

And though Bilbo couldn’t remember anything in particular about this strong-willed dwarf, he swelled and ached so badly he bent to shield his watering eyes from view. “Bilbo Baggins,” he said, “at yours.”

Dwarf after dwarf arrived, and Bilbo got more and more emotional with each one that showed up. Name after name was reintroduced to him, and he recalled more and more about them. Distant memories resurfaced, and after sending them all into the living room, he retired to the kitchen.

That was where Gandalf found him some minutes later, sniffling and dabbing at his eyes with a kerchief. “Oh, Bilbo,” he muttered. “Old friend, what ails you?”

“Nothing, Gandalf,” said Bilbo, and gave him a smile through the tears. “It is only, I am happy to see them… for reasons I cannot share.”

“Happy?” asked Gandalf, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you might be more on the… unhappy side. Considering everything.”

Bilbo rolled his teary eyes. “Oh, you and your stereotypes.” He wiped at the last tears, then sniffled, determined to get himself together. “No, there is something about those dwarves…”

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. “And it does not bother you? That I ask you to slay one of your own?”

“Oh, please. You ask me to retrieve a shiny stone, not murder a fell beast.” Bilbo rubbed at his cheeks and prodded gently at his eyelids, hoping to massage the signs of crying away. “Either way, if you did ask me to slay one of my own…” He thought back to the absolute terror that had filled him upon seeing Smaug that first time – Smaug himself nearly forgotten, though the feelings remained. The knowledge of all that had happened – all that had been lost… “For the right cause, I would not hesitate.”

When he looked at Gandalf once more, the wizard was watching him intently. “And is this the right cause?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, without hesitating. Allowing a small smile, knowing Gandalf would never guess the truth, he continued, “you do not know the path that brought me here, nor what I’m willing to risk to continue on.”

Though he could not remember what he had been told, in the void between worlds – in the darkness and light and the forever and the nothing, cradled in the universe’s folds – he knew what he had to do. It was etched into his bones, constantly driving him forward. It had been his purpose, much more than his faded memories, that had made him spare Gandalf’s life when Gandalf had found his broken body.

“Perhaps I do not,” Gandalf agreed. “You are an enigma, Bilbo Baggins. One I hope I will one day solve, yet know I will not.”

“Never say never,” said Bilbo, and grinned. “Back to what we spoke of, though – the felling of my own.” His grin became a stern look. “I do hope you have a plan, Gandalf. I cannot take any dragon on like this, and you know it.”

Gandalf inclined his head. “I am well aware, and yes, I do. We will talk after the meeting. Rest assured – I would not send you to your death.”

Recalling it was that precise thing Gandalf had done his last life, Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Sure, wizard.” He shook his head and made for the living room, which had finally quieted down. The meeting must be in session, then. “Come. My guests await us.”

In the living room, Thorin was already deep into the discussion of how to acquire the Arkenstone. Bilbo, who had decided to show the not-yet Company that he could be quite nifty should the situation arise, stepped forward. “I will take care of that,” he stated carelessly, placing a hand on the map that someone, presumably Balin, had procured.

Every eye was on him, all doubtful – though none as much as Thorin’s. “And how, exactly, will you do that?”

Gandalf bristled, but before he could come to Bilbo’s defence, Bilbo said, “with this,” and dangled the key to Erebor before the King’s nose.

It caused an instant uproar.

Thorin’s furious, “how did you come by that!” nearly lifted the roof.

“Gandalf bore it into my dwelling,” said Bilbo, shrugging as he dropped the key. “I simply took it from his pocket.”

“Stealing from a wizard,” Bilbo heard Dori – he thought it was Dori, anyway – mutter.

“Even I have nae managed that,” Nori – and yes, that was definitely Nori – grumbled.

Gandalf laughed heartily, clapping a hand to Bilbo’s shoulder. “As you all can see,” he said, “my burglar will do the job just fine.”

Thorin’s eyes were narrow and hard. Bilbo refused to meet his gaze – last he had looked into those eyes, they had promised him death, and before that, so much more – and eventually, he looked aside. “Balin,” he barked. “Contract.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but pale a bit at the nearly five-foot long parchment Balin procured. “Oh, dear,” he muttered, and sat down to read.

The more he read, the more frustrated he became. Yes, he had signed this contract once before, but back then he had seen nothing of pain and knew nothing of danger. He had been tired and baffled and confused, and the call of adventure had been in his veins.

Now he was ancient, more dragon than hobbit, and the hobbit-part that remained was of the studious kind. He was not tired, and he knew well what he was doing.

“I do believe we must discuss this contract,” Bilbo stated, and looked right up at Balin as he said it.

They spent nearly two hours debating the contract, agreeing and disagreeing on various fine print and clauses. Thorin sat overviewing it with a stormy expression, though Bilbo thought he might be able to see some begrudging acceptance in there.

He seemed to have won Balin’s respect, if nothing else. Gandalf seemed highly amused at the whole commotion and was kind enough to entertain the other dwarves while Bilbo and Balin discussed.

Eventually, Bilbo did sign the new and improved contract. Some vague plans were put together, then a travel route discussed, after which Bilbo found blankets and pillows for all thirteen dwarves and one wizard.

“And may you all have a fine rest, and I will serve breakfast tomorrow morn,” Bilbo said, nodding and waving at the room before he retired to his study, accompanied by fading ‘good night’s and ‘and the same to you, Master Burglar’s.

Gandalf soon followed him, bending nearly at the waist to get through the door. Bilbo’s little hobbit hole had never been built with tall folk in mind, and truth to be told, he had never bothered to fix it – Gandalf could deal with a too-small house once every decade or so.

After Gandalf had got himself seated precariously on the couch and Bilbo in the far more comfortable armchair, Bilbo raised his eyebrows expectantly.

With an airy sigh, Gandalf gave him a stern, though not unkind, look. “You do know I am quite fond of you, Bilbo,” he begun. “And I trust you, for you are good and kind, and have always been. Tell me, if you could once again bear your true form, would you?”

If Gandalf had meant _hobbit_ and not _dragon_ , Bilbo might have said yes – though it was far from a given: there were bonuses with this hybrid form that he would be hard-passed to give up. Then again, there was a yearning nostalgia that oft overcame him when he looked upon the hobbits of the Shire.

“A dragon’s life is far from painless,” Bilbo tentatively said. “You are huge, and hated, and hunted for what you are. If I could choose, I do believe I would stay as I am – in the Shire, with a warm hearth and a full belly. I’m a social creature, Gandalf, and the solitary life of a dragon, nomadic or not, isn’t one for me.”

Gandalf smiled. “Yes, you are indeed good and kind… as you know, this form classifies as a curse.”

Bilbo laughed. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I am aware.” One of his wrinkled hands disappeared into the folds of his robes. It rummaged around for a bit, then surfaced: between his fingers was a necklace. Immediately Bilbo knew it was made of silver – the fine gem in its face a pretty honey golden. It reeked of magic. “This is a curse-anchor,” Gandalf explained. “I will not go into details, but simply put – as long as you wear it, you will remain in hobbit form. It will not fall off and cannot be damaged, and I have ensured it impossible for any other than the Company, you, and I to remove it.”

Bilbo’s breath caught.

It had been decades since last he felt his scales expand with fiery breath.

He let out a soft, “oh.”

Gandalf nodded. “I hope you understand how essential it is you only use it in emergencies,” he said gravely.

“I understand,” Bilbo said softly. “In a company of dwarves it would not be wise to reveal myself. Of course.”

Again, Gandalf nodded. “Yet I will not have you entering a dragon’s lair without the ability to defend yourself. I have asked you for help – it is only proper to help you in return.” He held out the necklace. It dangled in the air; the candlelight danced and caught in the gem.

Bilbo took it gingerly. “How will I turn back?” he asked, hoping he would never have to use it.

“It is by choice,” said Gandalf. “When you turn back, you will already be wearing the necklace.”

“How?” asked Bilbo.

“Magic,” said Gandalf.

Bilbo decided it was for the best to not inquire further. “Will it hurt?”

“Do you recall how it felt to don this shape?”

It was like asking if he knew how it felt to be burned alive. “Yes.”

“Did it hurt?”

“…is it that bad?”

“Likely.”

Bilbo drew a deep breath and fastened the necklace around his neck. He tucked it beneath his shirt and let out the very same breath when the metal touched skin. “Why can the Company remove it?”

“That would be truly dire situations indeed,” said Gandalf sadly. “If you are captured, or rendered unable to remove it in some other way… it is a last resort.”

At the prospect, Bilbo swallowed thickly. He cared deeply for these dwarves, even if he still just barely remembered them – and he knew their anger ran thick and deep. To reveal himself to them… it was a terrifying thought.

“Let us hope I shall never find use for it,” he said.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “let us hope.”

Later, when Bilbo had retreated to his own room and Gandalf to his, he lay and listened to the song from the living room. It was as mourning and sorrowful as last he remembered, except now he had seen the empty tomb Erebor was, and it hurt that much more.

He lay and mused over the adventure he was about to have into the long hours of the night. There was nothing he hadn’t already thought of and considered. And yet, though he felt as prepared as he could possibly be, he couldn’t help but think nothing would go as planned.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so yeah i wasn't supposed to post this before Friday, but I wanted to give y'all something to chew on!

_“Have you ever seen the Shire before?” Gandalf asked._

_Bilbo, hurt and leaning into his side of the wagon, wanted to say yes. He had, in another life, with another body, with another mind. But it was ages ago, and he barely remembered. “Nay,” he croaked. “Never did I fly so far.”_

_Gandalf hummed. “By choice or order?”_

_“Both,” said Bilbo, and closed his eyes._

_“Well,” said Gandalf. “I do believe you will like the Shire, my friend. The land is mighty fine and the people kind, if they like you. They value food above anything else, and are farmers, for the most part. If you try, you will find a good home here.”_

_Bilbo smiled a little. “Of that, I have no doubt. But say, Gandalf, are we friends? I did not know you were a friendly with dragons.”_

_“I am not,” said Gandalf. He looked down on him with a kind smile – the first he had given. “Friend of dragon-hobbits, however… yes, that is another thing entirely.”_

_Curious, Bilbo asked, “are there many of us?”_

_“Only one,” said Gandalf. “Look, now – here we are.”_

_Bilbo looked._

_And looked, and looked, and **looked**. The Shire was lit aglow, shimmering green and even lusher than he could recall, the landscape such a far cry from the harsh lands of his death and birth. “Oh,” Bilbo choked, and drew a heaving breath._

_When he sunk onto his knees in the soft grass of Bag End some time later – Gandalf had penned Belladonna and convinced her to take him in, as a ‘distant relative’ of Bungo – the scent of earth and life was so warm and sweet in his nose and mouth that he burst into tears._

_“Bilbo,” Gandalf exclaimed, “what is the matter?”_

_And Bilbo looked up at him and smiled, smiled, **beamed** through the never-ceasing tears. “It is only,” he stuttered, “it feels like I am home.”_

*

Bilbo served breakfast the next day, and it was wolfed down far quicker than last night’s feast. Bilbo had packed food for himself, knowing the dwarves would not stop for anything until they reached their destination, and so spent breakfast time running off to Hamfast with his letters. By the time he returned, the dwarves had eaten all the food and packed all their bags.

And so they set off, on pony, though Bilbo had always hated that. He fell off towards the back of the group. Though he recalled various tidbits of information about them all, he felt the need to watch them for a bit to figure out their personalities again.

Fili and Kili, of course, had other plans. They fell back after him, one on each side, so that he could not run. “Why hello there, Master Boggins,” said Fili cheerfully.

“What a lovely day, isn’t it, Master Boggins?” said Kili, just as cheerfully.

Bilbo chuckled. “Indeed it is, but I doubt it will continue to be so if you mispronounce my name any further.”

Their cheerful expressions fell into confusion. “Mispronounce? Is it Bogging, then?”

“No, no,” said Bilbo. “Baggins. No such pesky o’s or other business as such.”

“Oh!” They shared a look, then offered sheepish smiles. “Apologies then, Master Baggins.”

And just as soon as the smile had appeared, it was switched out with a rather mischievous grin. Kili slapped him heartily on the back. “Did you know, we thought of betting on you?”

Hm, now that he said it, that did ring a bell. “You did?” he asked, acting scandalized for their sake. They were young; he might as well humour them. “You rascals!”

Fili brought his pony closer, eyes gleaming. “Oh, yes, we did.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “though Uncle Thorin stopped us… said we oughtn’t bet on something like that.”

Bilbo blinked. “He did?”

He cast a glance at Thorin, riding at the front of the company. His broad back seemed as cold as ever – he’d been nothing but stormy and distant since they went off. Then again, he usually was… had he really defended Bilbo’s pride?

“Yes, he and Balin both,” said Kili, and grinned. “So, welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Master Boggins!” A pause. “Baggins. Sorry.”

“But, say, why don’t you ride with us?” asked Fili. “There are many curious about you and your story… stealing Gandalf’s key right before his very eyes is a mighty impressive feat.”

A bit flustered, Bilbo explained, “really, I just knew which pocket it was in… he wasn’t on his guard, is all, and I brushed by him in the kitchen…”

The boys laughed. “Gandalf? Not on his guard? Now, that is a fine joke, Master Baggins! Come, then, ride with us.”

And Bilbo, exasperated and fond, did.

*

Balin told the story of the battle where Thror lost his life and Thorin stepped up to the throne, and Bilbo listened. He appreciated the gesture of inclusion, knowing the secrecy of dwarves well enough that this was more than a cautionary tale for Fili and Kili.

When Thorin declared Azog dead, however, Bilbo fell silent.

He dared not attempt to contradict him… even if he knew the truth.

*

The next day they pushed on – Bilbo chatting lightly with various members as they went – and when the sun begun to set, Gandalf rode up to Bilbo. “How are you doing, dear boy?”

“I would quite prefer to be walking,” Bilbo admitted, resisting the urge to roll his aching shoulders, “though I understand the need for ponies.”

Gandalf nodded, and then, with a discreet look around, leaned closer. “I have important business elsewhere,” he admitted quietly. “I’ll be back by dawn, and you may assure the dwarves of that.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Why are you not telling the dwarves this?”

“Thorin, the fool, believes he owns me,” Gandalf stated sourly. “He would not let me leave without a fight.”

“Sounds like him,” Bilbo grinned. Though he wished Gandalf would have stayed, he was glad he thought of telling him before disappearing. “Go on, then, shoo away. Farewell.”

Gandalf nodded to him, then slunk away, and not long after, he was gone. When the dwarves noticed, there was some disgruntled grumbles, but after Bilbo’s placating “I think he mentioned returning before dawn,” they calmed down.

Thorin, however, did not. He brought his pony over and asked, “Why would he tell you, but not me?” in a tone that spoke of no poppycock, leaning over Bilbo in a way that could be described as ‘looming’, if you were threatened by pouting dwarves.

Bilbo, who had come face to face with Morgoth a time or two, was not impressed. “Perhaps because he did not want this exact thing,” he said drily. “He is a wizard, Master Dwarf, and not a dog on your leash.”

Thorin fell silent at that.

It wasn’t long after they decided to make camp on a little cliff, and not much long after _that_ before the darkness set enough to reveal the light in the distance. Bilbo watched it, apprehensive as he refrained from unpacking. He had considered letting the trolls be, but that would mean leaving behind the troll hoard – and with it, Sting – and that would just not do.

Once the dwarves also spotted the light, they became quite eager. It was understandable – they’d been traveling the whole day with the most interesting thing happening being Gandalf disappearing, which wasn’t _that_ interesting, all things considered.

And, just as Bilbo thought, he was asked to investigate.

“Well, then I will investigate,” he agreed, “but you lot better be ready to help if it means danger.” After he got them all to promise they would, he set off into the thick of the forest. The troll camp wasn’t far away, and soon he was there, peeking through the leaves. They were trolls, of course, no doubt about that – but he thought it best to know all the details beforehand.

He counted them, three lumbering giants, and sighed wistfully. Unless something distracted them, they would hide away at the first hint of dawn, and then the dwarves and Bilbo would lose access to their hoard… and the Company would never be able to defeat three trolls on their own.

Pulling back and into the shadows of the bush, Bilbo considered his options.

He could of course attempt to steal from the troll hoard all on his own – he could sense the gold from here – but he didn’t know what to bring back, or how to bring it. Then another thing to do was return to the dwarves and inform them of the trolls, but then they would most likely either attempt to fight them or run off without checking the hoard.

Or he could distract them until dawn came up and about.

He snuck away, creeping as silently now as he’d done before. “Trolls,” he reported swiftly once he returned to camp. Worried murmurs rose from the group. “Three of them, great and lumbering.”

“Then it is not worth it,” Thorin decided, already turning away.

Damn him, that was the exact opposite –

“But I do believe it is,” Bilbo protested. “There is a troll hoard in a cave nearby, and there are fine weapons and gold for our travels. We don’t have to _kill_ them,” he hurried to add when the listeners became skeptical. “But if we can keep them distracted until sunrise, the gold will be ours.”

Thorin huffed but scratched at his beard. “And who do you propose do this distraction?”

“Why, me, of course,” said Bilbo.

It was a testament to how different things were this time around that they didn’t doubt his abilities. “Very well,” Thorin allowed after a moment’s consideration. “But if we suspect you are in grave danger, we will interfere at once.”

Once all of this was agreed to, Bilbo set away again, this time lingering in the bushes for only a moment before he stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted.

A minute later he was dangling upside down, his feet crushed in a ginormous fist. “You are a funny kind,” he said, trying to ignore how his heart was racing, “but come, now, there’s no use in cooking me. I taste foul and my flesh is like eating sponge. Have you ever had sponge?” he asked, twisting his head this way and that to look up at the three trolls.

They shared a look, then frowned at him. “No,” said one.

“Course not,” said another.

“Well, it is dreadful,” Bilbo assured them. “Horrible. You wouldn’t want to eat it. But, see, I’m an excellent chef. One of a kind, truly. If you would just put me down, I can help you make the most wonderful meal you ever have had.”

It was clearly tempting. The trolls looked at each other.

“Eat ‘im,” said one of the trolls not holding him.

Oh. Maybe it wasn’t that tempting, then.

Bilbo swallowed thickly. “No, no, no! Friends, I’m looking out for you! You don’t want to eat me, I’m a hobbit. Have you ever heard of hobbits?”

Again, they hesitated. “No,” said one.

“Course not,” said another.

“No, yes, _exactly_ ,” said Bilbo, gesturing a bit frantically. This really was not going as planned. “Which is why you won’t eat me. Because I’m not good, not at all. You’ll simply take a bite of me and spit me out in distaste, and then, well, who will make you food then?”

They scratched at their chins in unison. “No one?” one of them guessed.

“Yes!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Yes, _precisely_. You’re a smart one, you.”

“I like ‘im,” said the troll, and scowled at the one holding Bilbo. “Put ‘im down! Any food _he_ can make’s gotta be better’an yours!”

The troll holding Bilbo scowled right back. “You sayin’ I’m bad at cookin’?”

“I am, an’ you are, you great lump!” said the first troll.

The one holding Bilbo let out an angry yowl and set off towards him. “Wait!” Bilbo cried.

They all stopped to glance at him.

“You can fight as much as you want,” he said pleasantly. “But would you please put me down first?”

“Ah,” said the troll, looking almost sheepish. “Yes, right, right away.” He gently put Bilbo to the ground, then instantly threw himself at the other.

As they became a mess of yelling and grunting, Bilbo scurried away into the greenery. The dwarves were huddled together in the shadows, watching him intently. “Well?” said Thorin hoarsely. “What now?”

Bilbo shrugged. “They’re trolls, they’ll probably fight until morn. And if they don’t, I’ll just go in again and pretend to be someone else.”

“Masterfully done, Master Baggins,” Balin said, and the spark in his eyes might be from the troll’s fire, and it might not. Fili and Kili muttered their agreements, and several others – Dori, Ori, and Bofur included – nodded.

It was like Bilbo said. The trolls fought for several hours, their energy and vigour never ceasing. Eventually the company got bored of watching – several of them were fast asleep, and those who were not either chatted quietly or busied themselves. Dori and Ori were knitting together. Bifur whittled away at a piece of wood.

Thorin was brooding.

They all tensed and held their breath when one of the trolls tumbled through the trees, right into their midst – but all he did was roar in anger and throw himself back into the fist fight.

“Valar,” Bilbo muttered, and shook his head.

“Trolls,” Thorin grumbled.

“Trolls,” Bilbo agreed.

At one point, Gandalf showed up. He raised an eyebrow at them, but before he could speak, he was hushed by Nori, who then pointed at the still-wrestling trolls with a borderline bored expression.

Gandalf rolled his eyes and sat beside Bilbo, who’d borrowed a pair of knitting needles from Ori.

At last, one of the trolls cried out – “brothers! No! The sun!”

“Is it here already?” another balked, but more they could not say, for they had been turned to stone, the whole lot.

A weak cheer rose from the Company.

“Right,” said Gandalf, unimpressed, and stood. “Will someone tell me why you spent the night watching trolls fight?”

Thorin glared at him and rose, as well. “In your absence, it was all we could do. Our burglar reported a troll hoard with weapons and gold, and upon his offer of distracting the beasts until daylight, we agreed.”

Gandalf shot Bilbo a look, as though say, ‘was this really necessary?’ to which Bilbo could only nod.

“Very well,” said Gandalf, and sighed. “Let us go find this hoard, then.”

The hoard stank of troll, and with the dwarves’ knack for locating caves, they found it with ease. Bilbo decided to stay outside – both for the terrible smell and the faint call of gold. He’d have to face Erebor’s treasure eventually, but that was for the future.

Gandalf seemed to understand, for he brought Sting with him back outside, offering it up with a raised eyebrow. “Dear friend,” he said, “did you know this would be here?”

Bilbo took his old sword, testing its weight and shape in his hand. Despite the millennium separating them, it still felt _right._ “Perhaps,” he allowed, and slid it into his belt. “Does it matter?”

Huffing, amused, Gandalf asked, “will you tell me what else you know?”

“Hm,” said Bilbo, and stuck his thumbs into his pockets. “I don’t think I will.” Then he grinned. “Except, of course, that we must make haste – an orc pack chases us.”

Gandalf paled. “Are you certain?”

“Quite.”

“Then I shall gather the others,” Gandalf decided, and made haste for the cave where the dwarves were quarreling loudly.

They were fully packed and ready no less than five minutes later. “We make for Rivendell,” Thorin declared, before they began to move. He shot Gandalf a dark look. “Not that I like it, but we have few other options.”

Gandalf appeared quite exasperated, sighing heavily. “Elrond has many long years of experience in reading all sorts of maps,” he said. “He might be able to tell us more.”

None of the dwarves seemed to like it much, but they didn’t dare argue. And so they set off.

*

It had been a while since Bilbo had been so close to gold, no matter how much, and it was haunting. Worry gnawed at him, tight and close to his heart. How would he react to Erebor and her wealth? Would it be easiest if he were dragon, or if he were hobbit?

He didn’t know, and the uncertainty was putting him on edge – so much that that night, he couldn’t sleep. Instead he lay on his back in his bedroll, watching the stars and seeking out the few constellations he knew.

Now, though, he had been laying there for so long he figured there would be no sleep either way, so he might as well sit up. And so he did, wrapping his arms arounds his knees as he gazed into the glowing embers. They always reminded him of home – always had, too, no matter who he’d been at the time.

He was not a firedrake, and so he had never known what it felt like to sprout fire from his maw, and never had he felt anger burn through him like so many others. Still, a dragon he was, and he had lived with firedrakes many long years. He had seen true fire, and it hadn’t scared him. These embers? They were nothing. It was likely they would not even hurt if he touched them, though he wasn’t very willing to try.

Someone cleared their throat, ripping Bilbo out of his musings of fire and home and hearth. Bilbo glanced up – and right at Thorin, sitting upright on the other side of camp. Right – he was guard tonight.

“Can’t sleep?” Thorin asked gruffly.

Bilbo gave him a small smile for his efforts. “That’s correct,” he admitted.

He was ready for Thorin to ask why and began to think of an excuse – nightmares or a simple shrug would suffice, he was sure – anything but ‘oh, no, I’m just worried about how I’ll react to gold’.

All Thorin did, though, was incline his head. “You did good, today,” he said, sounding only a slight bit hesitant.

Hold on. Was Thorin complimenting him? “Uh, thanks?”

Thorin nodded. The dim firelight gleamed in his eyes. “You showed your willingness to give for the company. We thank you.”

“Oh, uhm…” Bilbo shifted, a bit uncomfortable with the praise. He’d done it for his own gain, after all. “Thank you, Master Dwarf, but really, it was… it was nothing.”

There was silence for a moment. Thorin stared at him, and Bilbo grew warmer beneath his gaze. Then Thorin gave the smallest of smiles – a small twitch of his lips. “You can use my name.”

Bilbo’s heart stuttered. Last time, he hadn’t given him that privilege until the very end. And he seemed so honest… “I – thank you, Mister Thorin, that is – ”

“Just Thorin,” Thorin interrupted.

Bilbo swallowed hard, not quite able to believe his eyes, much less his ears. A moment passed, and then he shook his head, gathering his wits. “Then – then you must call me Bilbo.”

“Of course,” said Thorin. “Bilbo.” He smiled again, wider now than before, a hint of teeth in the openness of it all.

Bilbo caught himself staring and forced himself to return the gesture, managing a wobbly smile in return before he had to lay back down, his heart racing.

Closing his eyes, he focused on calming his breath and heart both. He was smitten with Thorin, of course. He couldn’t deny that, even if he didn’t remember much about him. The things Bilbo did remember were cherished memories, for the most part. They had shared some warm and quiet moments together. When Bilbo had been given the mithril shirt, Thorin had kissed him – and though Bilbo could taste the sickness on his tongue, he’d been too selfish to do anything but respond in kind.

They had shared a bed three times before Bilbo betrayed him.

It had been a lifetime since then, but Bilbo had never loved nor wanted another.

The possibility of a second chance with Thorin had never even crossed his mind. But… was there an opportunity, here? Tucked in-between midnight black scales and pearly white claws?

It was a fool’s errand to hope.

But Bilbo couldn’t help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the 'through the darkness rise' tag on my tumblr for some juicy details about future chapters :eyes:


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

_“Mithrandir – what a pleasing surprise.”_

_“Ah, Elrond… I’m afraid my visit is not purely for entertainment. I have to ask quite the favour.”_

_“Anything for a friend.”_

_“Well… on my travels North, I encountered quite the strange… ah. Dragon.”_

_“A dragon? Are you alright, Mithrandir?”_

_“Yes, yes, quite. See, this dragon was badly hurt – he had suffered damage while attempting to escape a battle. He pled with me to spare his life and promised to pledge himself to the light if I would give him a new shape… of his choosing_. _”_

_“And what did you do?”_

_“I saw into his heart, Elrond, and knew he spoke true. I gave him the form he asked for.”_

_“…and what form was that?”_

_There was a rustle of cloth, then a blinding white light. Bilbo squirmed against the flare of pain, but was too weak to do much else._

_“A hobbit?”_

_“Lord Elrond, meet Dáynith the Dark.”_

_“Bilbo,” Bilbo grunted, from where he was cradled in Gandalf’s robe._

_Amused, Gandalf corrected, “or Bilbo Baggins, as he now is.”_

_“I sense… illness, in him.”_

_“You would not be wrong. There were unexpected difficulties with the transformation… could we stay here, for a week or two, until he heals?”_

_“Naturally, Mithrandir.”_

*

Bilbo had often meant to return to Rivendell, though he became quite busy with the garden and tending to the house and his eldering parents. After their passing, he never found the opportunity to go – his time filled with other affairs

Judging by their welcome, however, his long distance did not seem to be a problem. Elrond greeted them as old friends, even when the dwarves of the Company scowled and glared and fussed. They ate a hearty meal that first day and were shown to their rooms not long after. By then, it was too late to do much more than rest, and so they gathered in their designated common room to sing and share stories.

Bilbo sat curled up on one of the couches listening drowsily to the sound of dwarven laughter and gentle humming, and it felt quite like being back in the nest with his mother, newborn and warm and safe.

He’d been dozing off for a while when Ori sat down beside him. “You seem happy enough with the elves,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Bilbo, and smiled warmly. “They have done much for me, and we are considered friends.”

“How nice,” said Ori, and returned the smile. And so they sat talking kindly the rest of the evening, sharing anecdotes about their past, their families, and their hobbies – until Dori pulled Ori away to rest for the night, and Balin gently suggested Bilbo go sleep, as well.

That night Bilbo dreamt sweetly, and though he could not remember the dreams the next morn, the feeling of lingering happiness remained.

*

“We will stay just a few days,” Thorin announced at breakfast the second day. “So Elrond may look at the map, and so we may recover.” Murmurs of agreement rushed down the table. “Firstly, the map. We are to inspect it tonight, after dining. Balin and Gandalf will accompany me.”

After they finished eating breakfast, he made for the gardens of Rivendell, intent on finding some instruments – either to play or listen to – or old friends willing to have a chat. Before he could get further than two turns and a hallway, though, running feet caught up to him.

“Bilbo! Wait, I must ask you something.”

It was Thorin. Bilbo stopped and turned, allowing him to catch up.

“Would you be present for the inspection of the map?” Thorin asked, hands folded behind his back and posture one of importance. It was clear as day this was business. “You are the burglar, after all, and it is only fair you have the same information as I… from the source.”

If it had been fair, then Bilbo would have been asked the first time around. “Sure,” said Bilbo, nonetheless. It was kind of him to offer. “Though I’m certain you would have relied it just fine either way.”

“I am sure,” said Thorin, and Bilbo might have imagined the grin on his face, but it might also have been the light. “I will see you then.” And with a little nod and bow, he turned on his heel and went away.

Bilbo continued on his way towards the gardens, confused and a bit dizzy. All of these changes, just because he nicked a key and had some trolls fight? He couldn’t quite believe it.

And yet it was happening right in front of his face.

How strange.

*

There was no news during the meeting with Elrond – when the thrush knocks on Durin’s day and all of that, which Bilbo knew all about, even if he couldn’t remember the precise wording. He nodded along nonetheless, not wishing to appear uninterested or bored.

When they came to the point about ‘last light’, he spoke up, though – he’d rather not have a repeat of the last-minute panic. “Last light... does that mean sun or moon, do you reckon?”

A look of understanding passed Thorin’s face. “Mahal,” he muttered. “It must be the moon… I would not have guessed otherwise.”

Balin, who’d been quiet until now, clapped Bilbo’s shoulder. “Well done, laddie.”

Bilbo, flustered, did not answer. The praise did not feel deserved.

*

The remaining days in Rivendell were uneventful but brimming with peace and quiet. Even the dwarves seemed to calm – as much as they _could_ calm – in the delicate rooms and halls of marble. Bilbo spent much of his time in the library or gardens, either chatting with elves he knew or napping in the sun. Sometimes, Ori or Balin joined him, and he had many interesting conversations with them both.

The night before their departure, after he had packed his bags and rolls, Bilbo crept out towards the balcony in their common room. He wished to see stars from elven land one last time before they left, for they were rarely as clear or pretty elsewhere – and it was not guaranteed he would ever return.

Leaning against the stone and soaking in the cool summer night, Bilbo closed his eyes and breathed. Things would soon turn chaotic, he knew, but for now he could grasp what little peace he could. And stars had always brought him peace – they’d been one of his favourite parts of being a dragon – how he could fly beneath them for hours on end, without break or rest. He would have written poetry, then, if only his claws hadn’t been so clumsy with pen and paper.

He found himself fiddling with Gandalf’s necklace as he stood there, musing. The metal remained cool to the touch, even after all this time. Perhaps it was the magic.

“It is a nice necklace,” said a voice.

Bilbo startled and spun, a hand flickering to where Sting would have rested, if he wore his belt. “Thorin!” he exclaimed, upon seeing the dwarf behind him – wearing no armour, and with his hair loose – mouth curled in a small smile. Bilbo dropped the defensive stance. “You startled me.”

“My apologies,” Thorin said, inclining his head. “Those were not my intentions.”

“I would hope not,” Bilbo sniffed. “What was it you said, about my necklace?”

Thorin stepped out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing beside Bilbo. He was looking out at the view, though, rather than Bilbo himself. Surprisingly enough, there was no hatred in his expression – despite the elvenness, of it all. “It is nice,” Thorin said, casting a lingering glance at the necklace. “And it suits you. Where did you get it?”

Bilbo considered saying it was an heirloom but decided against it. He was living enough of a lie as it was. “It was a gift from Gandalf,” he admitted. Then, stretching the truth _just_ a little, “from long ago, when I was younger.”

Even in the dim light, Bilbo could make out Thorin raising an eyebrow. “And you yet bear it?”

“Well, yes,” said Bilbo, and sniffed. “I’m quite the sentimental hobbit, I’ll have you know. And a gift from a wizard in times of hardship should not be frowned upon.”

There was silence for a long moment. “Apologies,” Thorin said. “I did not mean to offend.”

“No offense taken,” Bilbo hurried to assure. He paused, then, figuring he would probably not get an opportunity like this again, asked, “may I ask you a question?”

Thorin lifted a hand, swinging it in lazy circles as he gazed out at the gardens. “Go ahead.”

“Why are you kind to me?” Bilbo asked. He immediately regretted asking, by how Thorin tensed. His heart was full of courage, though, and so he ploughed on. “It is only, I expected more resistance from you… a group of dwarves, recruiting a hobbit, of all creatures? Besides, I am but a burglar, and the initial contract made clear I was not one of the Company itself…” Trailing off, he managed a little shrug. “You aren’t what I expected.”

Thorin, surprisingly enough, chuckled quietly. It was a dark rumble; Bilbo shuddered, a vague memory of laying across his bare chest as he laughed flashing in his mind. “You are not what I expected, either,” Thorin admitted. “And that is likely it. You fascinate me, and I would like to understand you better. Why would I be cruel, then?”

“You make a fair point,” said Bilbo, feeling somewhat disappointed that it hadn’t been anything more, and relieved it wasn’t anything less. “Thank you for indulging in an old hobbit.”

“Then, a question for you in return,” said Thorin.

Bilbo’s mouth ran dry. “Oh?” Did he know? Had someone told him? Was the confrontational moment finally here?

“Why did you agree to join us?”

Oh. He didn’t know. Relieved, Bilbo gave a breathy chuckle. “Oh, uhm. Well.” He stopped to think about it. What could he say, that would not be a lie, but also not the truth? “I wished to help? What little I can to help you regain what is yours… I will gladly do.”

They stood in silence. Then Thorin said, “you are a kind creature, Bilbo Baggins. I do believe I will go to bed, now. You should do the same – we leave early tomorrow.”

“Right,” said Bilbo, and his voice shook only a little. “Right,” he repeated, and followed Thorin inside.

*

The next day they made for the Misty Mountains. Bilbo was the only in the Company who wasn’t too hopeful or excited about the upcoming trip, excepting only Gandalf, who seemed sterner than usual. The last time crossing the Mountains had been dreadful and terrifying, and that was without the knowledge that deep in those mountains, there was a ring waiting for him. Last time, he hadn’t known what it had been, of course – though he’d known it was far from good – but now he’d seen it on the hand of Sauron – and he knew better.

He knew much, much better, and though his stomach was churning with horror, it was also churning with anticipation. How would he react to it? Would he be able to taste the gold in the air around it?

Absently, he fingered the necklace resting against his chest. Would the silver counteract the gold?

When he first learned that his little miracle ring was the _One Ring of Power_ , he’d wanted to rage. He’d wanted to never see or think about it again. But then he’d thought of what might happen if he _didn’t,_ and he steeled himself and chose his own path down the road of destiny that had been carved before his feet.

But even without the ring, the Misty Mountains had been harrowing. Boring, terrifying, bitingly ice-cold… Bilbo had shivered for days afterwards.

Now, staring up at the threatening peaks, apprehension dawned.

It was going to be a long few days.

*

The first night, it seemed to dawn on the dwarves as well. They sat huddled together, afraid to light a fire or speak too loudly. Indeed, only some spoke, and their tones were hushed. It didn’t take long before they fell quiet.

Fili and Kili somehow managed to keep their cheer, and they plonked down on either side of Bilbo, successfully smushing him between them. “So, Master Baggins,” said Fili, rubbing his hands together. It was unclear if it was a gesture of menacing, evil plans – or merely a ploy to keep his warmth.

“How’s this for a change?” said Kili.

“Not much like your hobbit hole, is it?” asked Fili.

And Bilbo, who hadn’t been cold in a long time, gave them a dry smile and handed Kili, who was shivering, his blanket. “No, indeed,” he said. “But I wasn’t anticipating it to be. Tell me, what did you expect? Did the mountains look inviting, to you?”

They laughed. Kili accepted the blanket but gave Bilbo a scrutinizing look. “I guess they didn’t,” he allowed.

“What the dunderheaded princes are trying to say,” Balin said drily, without looking up from the pack he was organizing, “is ‘how are you, Master Baggins?’”

Bilbo squinted at Fili and Kili, who now were very busy inspecting the overhang they rested beneath. “Is that true?” Bilbo asked, and poked Fili in the side.

Fili squeaked like a startled mouse. When he gathered his wits, he hesitantly said, “maybe.”

Laughing, Bilbo patted his shoulder. They truly were like children most of the time. “Well, Master Dwarves, I am doing quite fine, thank you. Indeed I am a bit worse for wear, and I would really like if we could come down from these mountains soon, but I have seen worse.”

“Really?” asked Kili, so surprised and loud that every eye turned to them. “How have you seen worse in the small Shire?”

“Uh,” said Bilbo, caught on the dozen eyes fastened to him. He racked his brain for something to say – maybe the Fell winter, though he’d have to spin the truth a bit – _anything_ but wars and battles and torture would work fine –

“ _Boys_ ,” Thorin growled, glaring from his bedroll on the other side of camp. “You should know better than any not to ask and dig.”

Fili and Kili, looking quite flustered, apologized profusely to both Bilbo and Thorin, and then went off to sit in their own corner and mope.

“And for Mahal’s sake,” Thorin added, glaring at Kili, “give him his blanket back.”

Kili looked so much like a kicked puppy that Bilbo couldn’t help himself. “No, no,” he said, “it’s quite alright. I’m not cold.”

Truth to be told, he was cold – but it was far from the shivering cold the dwarves seemed bothered by. The blanket wouldn’t help much either way. What he needed was a warm hearth to curl up by, so he could soak in the heat and store it in his core.

“You are kind, Master Baggins,” said Thorin, “but you can’t possibly – ”

“Thorin.” This time it was Gandalf who came to his rescue. “If Bilbo says he is not cold, he is not cold. Can’t you see he’s quite comfortable where he is?” And with that, Gandalf came to sit by him, saving him from any other, awkward questions.

Well, for a little while, at least. Gandalf asked, voice hushed, in Sindarin, “I thought you were a cold-drake?”

Bilbo shook his head. “Smoke-drake,” he corrected, also in Sindarin, “my mother was a fire-drake, and my father was of the cold kind. Can’t breathe fire, but I have the same core.”

Gandalf puffed his pipe and blew smoke in Bilbo’s face.

“Yes,” said Bilbo drily, “just like so.”

*

The next day the storm hit, and Bilbo’s heat drained at ridiculous speeds. Still, he was far from shivering – he felt more like a wet rock than anything else – and seemed to fare better than any of the others. They had ceased complaining, but they were soaked and miserable. Bilbo could almost smell it.

Lightning crackled across the sky, and they all pushed closer to the rock wall. Bilbo, placed between Thorin behind and Dwalin in front, was hard-pressed to see just about anything. Nonetheless, he could hear double for what he couldn’t see – the roaring rain, the howling wind, the booming thunder – and the dwarves’ pitiful complaints, slotted neatly in right next to the crunching of rock against rock whenever the stone giants moved.

Bilbo’s intense focus on the sounds around them let him hear danger the others did not see. “ _Duck_!” he shrieked, and did as he said, falling to his knees on the knife-thin ledge. A moment later both Thorin and Dwalin echoed his call.

They ducked just in time for a boulder to go flying by.

Dwalin, crouched before Bilbo, cursed loudly. “That would’a had my head!”

Thorin said nothing, but his grip on Bilbo’s shoulder when they stood was so tight it would’ve bruised, had Bilbo been any other hobbit.

It wasn’t long after they found the cave. Bilbo was one of the first ushered in, and he stood nervously and watched while Gandalf scoured the place for anything off. “Don’t ye worry, lad,” said Bofur, and patted Bilbo’s shoulder fondly. “If something’s wrong, Gandalf’ll know.”

Bilbo shot him a smile he hoped looked grateful, not willing to say that that was the precise thing he worried about.

In the end, Gandalf found nothing, and they settled in. They lit no fire, but Gandalf took pity on Bilbo and let him sit close to his staff, which glowed faintly and emitted low heat. Bilbo sat there by him and chatted about nothing in particular as he warmed himself, and by the time he’d gotten his core-heat back, the dwarves had laid out their clothes and started puffing their pipes.

After expressing his gratitude to Gandalf, and with dull guilt gnawing at his heart, Bilbo went to sit with the dwarves. They were discussing what to do with the treasure, once they’d acquire it – likely just to fill the time, but there was still some truthfulness to much of what they said. The notion of it all filled him with bittersweet joy. He knew what they would do: hoard it and succumb to dragon sickness.

But not this time around.

Bilbo would make sure of that. The song of their quest would not turn sour – not again.

“And what of you, Master Baggins?” asked Dori, a kind smile on his face. “What will you spend the gold on?”

They all fell quiet, watching him with interest. Even Gandalf paid attention from the corner.

“Hm, well,” said Bilbo.

What would he spend it on?

It hit him he hadn’t thought of what to do _after_. He had been so focused on everything _before_ that it simply hadn’t crossed his mind, neither what he wanted to do nor what would be practical.

Would he retreat to the Shire? Would he prefer to stay with the dwarves? Would he collapse in exhaustion and beg Gandalf to end it all, now that his purpose was fulfilled?

“I think,” he said, “I will spend it on my garden.”

They chuckled, nodding to each other with knowing looks. _Of course_ , those looks seemed to say, _it’s Bilbo Baggins._

“All of it?” asked Ori with a smile.

“Hmm,” said Bilbo. “No. Some books for my study, perhaps.” He leaned back onto his pack and blew smoke at the general gathering, smirking a bit to himself when they rolled their eyes and waved the smoke away. Respectable hobbit, indeed.

While the conversation picked back up, Kili made his way over. He didn’t quite meet Bilbo’s gaze, but handed off a bundle of cloth. “Thank you for borrowing it away,” he said, “but I think you need it more.”

It was the blanket Bilbo had let him borrow last night. By some miracle, it was still dry. “Kili,” Bilbo sighed, “come here.”

Hesitantly, Kili made his way closer.

Quick as a fox, Bilbo darted forward and snatched his hand. It was cold as ice.

Kili’s eyes went wide, flickering from Bilbo’s hand to Bilbo’s face.

“I’m not cold,” said Bilbo kindly. “You need the blanket. Keep it.”

When Kili only gazed down at Bilbo’s hand again, Bilbo softened. Kili was the youngest of the Company – followed by Fili and then Ori – and Bilbo had always been fond of children, both in the past life, and in this. There was something so joyous and innocent about them – about the new life that flared in them – and all the blank, unwritten pages of their tale.

“Kili.” Bilbo beckoned him closer with his free hand. “Sit with me.” Kili sat, and Bilbo immediately wrapped an arm around his torso – no matter that Kili was bigger than him, Bilbo was used to that – and leaned into his side. “You are cold, and I am warm. Don’t squirm,” he said simply, and Kili folded into him, silent.

It wasn’t long after that Fili noticed the commotion and made his way over, curious.

“He’s so warm!” Kili explained, from where his head was resting on Bilbo’s curls. He sounded almost awed, almost disbelieving, and Bilbo chuckled. “C’mon, Fi, sit!”

Hesitantly, Fili sat on Bilbo’s other side. He was also cold – far colder than Bilbo would like – and he grudgingly admitted that Bilbo _was_ very warm. When he curled up next to him, neither Bilbo nor Kili mentioned it.

Bilbo was effectively stuck between them – cold and wet – but he kept their age in mind and couldn’t help but be kind. When he looked around to see if anyone found it odd, he was met only by Thorin’s calculating glance, and Thorin did not look for long before he glanced aside.

The boys fell asleep against him. Bilbo waited patiently, cautiously petting their hair and humming absentmindedly, until the others succumbed to sleep, as well. Then he drew Sting, and watched quietly as the blade began to glow, first faint, then stronger and stronger with each minute that passed.

When the quiet sound of creaking stone reached his ears, he swallowed thickly and slowly turned his head, glancing at the crack in the solid rock floor, creeping dark and ominous and closer. Distantly, there was an echo of drums.

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo whispered, and waited until the crack grew larger – larger –

When he deemed it large enough, he jumped to his feet. “Up!” he hollered, and the trace of panic to his voice was very, very real. “Up, everyone up! Danger! Goblins! Danger!”

There was confusion and alarm, but Bilbo had been too late – or, just in time. The goblins tore up through the ground with mad cackles and song, and soon they’d all been swallowed up by the mountain, cold and cruel.

Bilbo tried to keep his breath under control as they tumbled down into the dark.

He would have to face Gollum.

*

After they first escaped the goblins, Bilbo had managed to sneak away from the group, diving into the deep of the mountain. Now he hesitantly marched forward, hand trailing against the stone wall beside him and Sting drawn, its glow faint and slight. It was dark and the air damp, but Bilbo could make out much more than a normal hobbit and did not struggle with finding his way.

He could sense the ring nearby, and that is what he was going towards. It was both magic and gold that called out to him, though the gold much more than the magic – truly, had he not known of the gold, it wouldn’t have been more than a slight pull drawing him in – and he sniffed the air, seeking it out.

Eventually, he found it laying innocently on the stone floor. He bent to pick it up, relieved and surprised at the lack of response he got from it. It seemed to be a bit disappointed, if nothing else – a _this might as well happen_ kind of attitude.

 _That is fair and well_ , thought Bilbo, and stuck it in his pocket before he marched on. He knew there was a way out before him, if he could just walk for long enough. And maybe, if he was lucky, he would not meet Gollum.

He was not lucky.

With his enhanced night vision, Bilbo saw Gollum the instant he stepped into the vast cavern with the underground lake. Gollum, with its pale light-like eyes, saw Bilbo, as well.

They stared at each other through the dark.

Bilbo supressed a sigh.

He was determined not to run, but Gollum was such an eerie, unsettling creature that it was hard to keep his instincts in check when it began to paddle towards the shore.

It didn’t blink even once.

“What isss it, precious?” Gollum growled, staring at Bilbo without moving its head. “Meaty and fleshy, it is, is it tasty, precious?”

“Absolutely not,” said Bilbo, and pointed Sting right at it. “I am but a lost Hobbit, looking for a way out.”

“Hobbitses?” asked Gollum, and smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Is hobbitses tasty, precious?”

“Absolutely not,” Bilbo repeated. “Will you leave me alone, or will you show me the way out?”

It was a fairly forward question, and Bilbo hoped Gollum would either slink away or attack – but history either had a knack for repeating itself, or Gollum was just really fond of riddles, for it said, “does it like riddlesss? Hmm? Riddles?”

“Uh,” said Bilbo, and thought fast. “Uh, yes, yes it – I do. But I will only have a game of riddles with you, if – if you show me the way out.”

Gollum clearly did not like that, for it snarled and spat and convulsed. “No!” it hissed. “No!” Then, suddenly, its voice became soft. “Oooh, but riddles are fun, precious – no! _Gollum_!”

Trying to save his skin, and becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the stakes, Bilbo suggested, “I’ll have a game of riddles with you! But – but if you can’t answer one, you’ll have to show me the way out!”

Silence.

Gollum crept closer, unblinking and emotionless. Bilbo struggled to stay still.

“And if it can’t answer,” Gollum said quietly, dangerously, “then we _eats it whole_.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, nodding. Yavanna, but he longed for green grass and blue skies. “Yes, that is – acceptable.”

He was more than six thousand years old. He could manage some riddles.

Five minutes later he was wrestling Gollum on the floor, trying desperately to throw it off. “Wrong!” it hissed, gleeful and hysterical, its cold hands scrabbling and clawing at Bilbo’s throat. “It is wrong! Wrong! Let us eats it! It _promised_!”

Bilbo breathed hard, both thinking and not thinking at the same time. He no longer had Sting – Gollum had knocked it out of his hand when he’d mumbled the wrong answer while deep in thought – and Gollum was far stronger than its size seemed to suggest.

With a howl, Gollum buried its teeth in Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo cried out, and in a panic, his hand flew to his shoulder, trying to push Gollum off –

He brushed against the necklace from Gandalf, and with only half a thought’s preparation, he ripped it over his head.

There were a few seconds where nothing happened.

And then every bone in his body broke all at once.

Bilbo wanted to scream, but couldn’t – there was blood in his mouth, and his tongue was so heavy, and he was changing, he was growing, he was burning, he was drowning, pain, pain, pain, he couldn’t _think_. His back bended, his hands melted, and he grew, grew, GREW.

The moment the transformation was complete, the pain cased and faded. Still, it took Bilbo a moment to gather his bearings.

Everything was so small.

He breathed heavily, shaking his head and clenching his clawed paws again and again, just to prove that he could. _Dragon_ , he thought. _Dragon, dragon, dragon._

Though the transformation couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds – Gandalf would not have let it be a plan B if it meant Bilbo would be writhing in pain for several minutes – Gollum was nowhere in sight.

Bilbo lay down on the ground and sighed. “Fuck,” he whispered, glad for the thunder in his voice.

He would be a liar if he said he hadn’t missed dragon form, somewhat – the wings, the freedom, the size. The rumble of fire in his chest.

But by Valar, this was _not_ the way he had wanted to experience it again.

“Fuck,” said Bilbo again, and sat up. His dragon body was strong and powerful – the transformation would not bother him in this form – but his hobbit body was vulnerable and weak. The moment he turned back, he would be in great pain, and it likely would not cease for a while.

It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, though. A dragon, even of his rather small size, would never fit in the hallways and tunnels of the goblins.

Drawing a deep breath, Bilbo transformed back.

He lay aching on the floor for a while, clutching Gandalf’s necklace in one hand and Sting in the other.

And then he staggered to his feet and began to walk.

He found his way out eventually. It felt like ages, but it was probably not more than half an hour, at most. Every inch of him ached and moaned at every motion he made when he broke through from the darkness and into the setting sunlight. Fresh air felt wonderful against his skin, and Bilbo stood breathing it freely for several moments before he began to look for his dwarves.

They weren’t hard to find. They were gathered in a group, chattering and nattering on loudly – bugging Gandalf with questions like, ‘ _where’s the hobbit’_ and ‘ _why don’t you know this’_ and ‘ _but who saw him last!?’_

Tired, Bilbo leaned against one of the trees nearby. “Oh, stop bothering him, he’s just an old man,” he exclaimed.

The whole group turned as one, a cheer of, ‘Bilbo!’ and ‘Master Burglar!’ and ‘Master Baggins!’ greeting him. It was a far cry from what Bilbo recalled happening last time, but he accepted it with ease.

Gandalf’s relief, however, was fleeting. “Bilbo,” he said, with the familiar tint of Sindarin, “did you…?”

Bilbo nodded absently. “I had to.”

“I am so sorry, dear boy,” he said, and shook his head. In Westron, he said, “our dear burglar has suffered some injuries, but never fear.” He shuffled around in his pockets for a bit, then drew out a vial of some golden liquid. “This should make him better immediately.”

While he handed the vial over to Bilbo, and Bilbo gulped it down, the group erupted in angry questions, like ‘ _why can’t you fix us, too, then?’_

“It is not that kind of injury,” Gandalf said, exasperated.

That, of course, led to another row of questions, like, ‘ _then what is it?_ ’

“Nothing you should worry about,” Gandalf barked.

They quieted, at that.

Bilbo, who had now downed the liquid, already felt vastly better. Not quite good, but much better than he’d expected in such a short period of time. “Gandalf,” he croaked, for he had heard something and smelled it even better, though he’d been distracted by his pain –

Gandalf turned to glance at him.

“Wargs.”

And not before he had said it, did the wargs come howling down the hill. They were huge, snarling, and terrifying.

Bilbo remembered what they tasted like, squirming in his maw.

He felt sick.

“Run!” Gandalf cried.

They ran.

Bilbo was acting on instinct, listening to the clues of the people around him, and when Gandalf yelled, “climb! Into the trees! Go! Go!” he did, without question. And in the top, he clung to the branches, to twigs, scratches on his arms and terror in his throat.

Everything happened so fast. Wargs were snapping at his feet, there were moaning dwarves around him, someone was yelling – and suddenly burning pinecones were pressed into his palms, and the dwarves threw them – fire and flame tearing through the sky.

They looked like fireballs being thrown from far away, and Bilbo watched, drowning in memories.

Like dominos, the trees began to fall. Only one last tree stood, towering tall, thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard clutching at the branches.

They cheered.

Bilbo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, panic soaring through him.

He knew what would happen – had lived through it before – knew what Thorin would do, knew what _he_ had to do.

And he was _terrified._

The tree creaked, sloping dangerously forward and off the cliff.

So much was happening. There was fire in his nose and mouth, burning hot all the way down his spine, and he was back in the nest and he was back in the camp, whips of fire and pain and he was _burning –_

Dori was slipping, bark and needles were digging deep into Bilbo’s flesh, Ori was breathing heavily beside him.

But Bilbo could not focus on them.

He could not focus on anything at all, except for the growing anger on Thorin’s face.

“Thorin, no!” Balin cried, and Dwalin struggled against the branches, but could not get up. “Laddie! Don’t be foolish!”

Thorin did not hear. Perhaps he could not hear – Bilbo knew how anger could cloud and distort.

He watched, mouth dry, as Thorin ran.

He watched, _everything_ dry, as Thorin failed.

Azog called out the command – Bilbo knew not what it meant, but he didn’t _need_ to know, he felt it in his bones – in his very marrow.

And in a rush the numbness was overcome by hatred.

Bilbo was a dragon, he was powerful and strong, he could snap trees in half, he could take these orcs and wargs down with ease, Bilbo was a dragon, he was a _dragon._

The branches dug into his knees as he clambered up. Sting was slick with sweat and blood in his hands; he could feel the others watching him, but could not care, _would_ not care.

Because Bilbo was a dragon, a dragon a dragon a dragon a dragon a dragon, and if there is one thing dragons are, it’s possessive.

(Thorin was his his his his **_his_** )

With smoke in his lungs and fire in his heart, Bilbo charged.

It was all a blur, dragon fire in his veins, Thorin hurt on the ground – the past, all kinds of it, roaring in his ears – Azog snarling, fire crackling, the dwarves hurling through the flames, coming to his rescue.

The eagles swooping in, and then he was airborne, wind in his face and Thorin hurt, hurt, hurt.

Bilbo buried his face in the eagle feathers, trying desperately to keep the emotional tears at bay.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this much, not ever, not for anyone.

He was _meant_ to save Thorin, and he’d not had a choice, of course. There was fate and destiny pulling at his strings like a puppet, but… but he hadn’t been thinking about that. He’d ran in on his _own_ according, thinking not with his head, but with his heart.

He hadn’t been thinking much beyond flashes of loss and how it would hurt if Thorin was no more.

He’d been thinking with draconic anger.

*

“Thorin!” Gandalf exclaimed.

Bilbo slid off the eagle who had carried him, muttering a hushed thanks into its feathers before he joined Gandalf’s side. Thorin would be alright, he knew.

Thorin had to be alright.

As Bilbo watched Gandalf work on Thorin’s wounds, the other dwarves gathered around them, worried and nervous. Dori was tugging at his sleeves; Dwalin was pacing.

Thorin’s eyes fluttered open, and the group collectively let out a relieved breath. “The… the halfling?” Thorin croaked.

Despite having heard it before, Thorin’s concern for Bilbo caused the same feeling as the first time around. Fluttering happiness at the pit of his belly, spreading through his whole body like unfurling wings.

“Quite alright,” Bilbo said, before Gandalf could speak up. “Not even a bruise.”

That was a lie; his knees and palms were scrubbed. It held nothing to Thorin’s near-death, though.

Thorin began to stand, and every dwarf nearby – that is, all of them – rushed to help him. Bilbo swallowed, preparing himself for the painful tirade he knew would come.

“You saved my life,” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo blinked.

“What?”

“I am indebted to you,” Thorin said, inclining his head. “Thank you, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo, flustered, said, “Bilbo. You said you’d call me Bilbo.”

Thorin smiled. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

And with that, he staggered forward and pulled him into a crushing hug.

It was too much.

Bilbo began to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we learn Bilbo's dragon name! Dáynith is some fairly bastardized Sindarin (Bilbo named himself), it translates into 'nightmist'. Did Bilbo basically name himself 'skin human'? Yes. do I care. no


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the longer-than-anticipated wait, everyone! Here's the next chapter :)

**Chapter Four**

_It was the beginning of winter when Gandalf, at last, took his leave. He had stayed to ensure Bilbo would be accepted into the Shire, and had seemed just as surprised as Belladonna and Bungo when he immediately took to their customs and norms. There were no questions asked, however – only gentle chuckling and drinking of tea._

_Bilbo did not want him to leave. “Must you go so soon?” he asked, feeling quite like a little fauntling begging a parent not to leave for work. While he felt home and more at ease than he had ever done before, Gandalf was the one who understood him best._

_Gandalf smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid I must. I have business to attend to, and it is a pain to travel during winter.”_

_“Yes, I suppose it is,” Bilbo had to agree. “But… oh, Gandalf, will you visit?”_

_“Of course,” said Gandalf. And then, with a mischievous wink, he added, “to ensure you don’t eat or burn every hobbit in the area, naturally.”_

_Bilbo huffed and rolled his eyes and pretended he didn’t realize Gandalf meant it, and then he let him leave._

_And Gandalf did visit, at least once a year – sometimes only briefly, and sometimes staying for weeks. In the beginning it was clear as day he came to make sure Bilbo was behaving, but over time, the same could no longer be said. Bilbo was glad to finally have earned his old friend’s trust, and – even after Belladonna and Bungo’s passing – easily decked for feast whenever Gandalf came by. He never stayed too long, though._

_He left._

_Gandalf always left._

*

On their way to Beorn’s house they stopped by a stream. After running around in the goblin tunnels, they all felt the need to bathe and clean themselves, even if they had no soap to speak of, and the joy at finding fresh water was bright and merry.

Bilbo watched, smiling lightly to himself, as Fili and Kili made quick work of stripping their clothes and running headfirst into the water. The others were slower to join them, but judging by their laughter and eager expressions, they got just as much enjoyment out of it.

Gandalf and Bilbo stayed at the shore. Bilbo had no reservations about undressing – dragons don’t wear clothes – but he feared there might be an attempt of murder if he stepped in. Fili and Kili were trying their best at drowning whoever was within reach, and Bilbo would not put it past them to gang up on him.

Thorin swam up to float in the water beside the rock they were perched on. “Not going to join the water, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten my name yet again, Master Dwarf?”

“Forgive me,” said Thorin, flustered, and stood. “Old habits are hard to break.”

“Oh, uhm,” said Bilbo, looking anywhere but at Thorin’s bare chest covered in hair and tattoos and water and goodness knows what else, “that’s quite alright.”

Thorin pulled a hand through his hair, and good Yavanna, Bilbo was in this too deep. “Well?”

“What?” asked Bilbo, who’d been busy staring at Thorin’s muscles.

“Will you join us?”

“Oh!” Bilbo cast a wary glance at Fili and Kili, who were trying to escape Dori’s wrath. A soaked Ori stood nearby, looking a bit perplexed. “Well… the boys seem occupied enough.”

Thorin’s expression darkened. “I will not let them bother you.”

Rolling his eyes and ignoring how his heart jumped, Bilbo said, “how noble,” and began to undress. Not long after he was in the water just like everyone else, swimming with broad strokes.

He had been taught to swim by his mother. There had been no space for water-fear in the camps of Morgoth, and by the time Bilbo was once again a hobbit, he figured he might as well learn to swim with that body, too. The other hobbits had thought him foolish, of course, but when had he ever cared about that?

They played around in the water for quite a while, Gandalf watching them with amused eyes. Fili and Kili did splash at Bilbo, but Bilbo answered by throwing all his weight onto them and dragging them kicking and yelling beneath the waves.

“Peace!” Came Fili’s muffled shriek. “Peace, hobbit, peace!”

Several people were laughing when they surfaced – Thorin amongst them.

Eventually, they crawled back ashore and began to look for their clothes.

A shrill gasp from Kili caught everyone’s attention. “Master _Baggins_ ,” he cried, “have you _fought_?”

“What?” said Bilbo, and gave him a puzzled look. When Kili only pointed at him, he glanced down at himself – and cursed his own stupidity. “Oh,” he said, patting a hand down the multitude of scars running along his back and torso. They continued down his thighs and ankles – as well as arms and wrists – but they were fainter, and not as deep. “Hm, yes, I suppose.”

Kili didn’t seem to notice everyone’s eyes on them, as he, baffled, asked, “but – but how? And who? And where?”

“Well, if you absolutely must know,” said Bilbo, smiling, “it was quite the cruel battle against some farm machinery when I was young. I don’t remember it, of course. Forgive me, is the view unsettling? It is only natural to me.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Kili, completely failing to notice how the others had quieted. “Sorry, Bilbo, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Bilbo went on to don his clothes, as dirty and unkept as they were.

When he glanced up at the Company, he could tell everyone but Kili were very aware of what scars from whips looked like. Similarly, they all knew better than to ask. Only a few cast him speculative or worried gazes.

Gandalf only looked relieved.

*

They set camp one last night before they approached Beorn’s house. Gandalf sat beside Bilbo near the small fire, and they spoke in hushed Sindarin, to not wake or stir the others. “I will present you to Beorn before the others,” Gandalf said. “I dearly hope he won’t recognize you for what you are, but if he does, I must explain your situation.”

Bilbo nodded, his heart heavy. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Then you shan’t take it personally,” said Gandalf, “and I will try to convince him to let us rest by him anyway.”

“Okay,” said Bilbo, and felt very small, for he remembered how fond Beorn had been of him his last life, and he hoped those gentle eyes would not look at him with hatred.

The next day, Gandalf told the dwarves the same as last: to wait for his signal, and then come in pairs. Bilbo could barely hear the words for the summing in his ears and the worry gnawing at his bones.

“It’ll be alright, dear boy,” said Gandalf, and patted his head – the only place he could reach without it being awkward.

Bilbo didn’t quite trust that, but he nodded, nonetheless. And so they made for Beorn’s house – or rather, Beorn’s farm. On the way, they saw several animals of various kinds, and they were all so fair they couldn’t be anything but guard posts. That was proved, as well, when they all ran off towards the house in the distance.

Beorn was waiting for them when they approached. At first, he didn’t look too angered – but then, when he laid eyes on Bilbo, and they got a bit closer, he reeled back with a sound of protest. “Who are you,” he spat, “and what do you want?”

“I am Gandalf,” said Gandalf, “a wizard. And this is my dear traveling companion, Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire.”

Huffing, Beorn scowled down at Bilbo. “Oh, a hobbit he might look like, but I am no fool. A dragon stands before you, wizard!”

Gandalf seemed to grow many years older just as they stood there. “It is true,” he admitted, “that Bilbo was born a dragon. Dáynith was his name, if you have heard of him.”

“Of course I have not,” said Beorn, offended.

“No, naturally,” Gandalf hurried to placate. “But he is nothing but a cold-drake, and was never anything but good – he came to me, hurt, and pled to be given a kinder body that would not be judged so harshly.”

Beorn raised his eyebrows. “And you listened to that fell beast?”

“Well, see, wizards can often tell if people mean what they say or not,” Gandalf tried to explain, “and I looked into his heart and saw he spoke true. So I gave him the body he wished for, and since he has been nothing but kind and good.”

Bilbo had been quiet, letting Gandalf handle the situation. Now, though he felt inclined to speak. “I understand your wariness and anger,” he said, trying to keep his tone quiet and even, “for dragons can be very cruel when angered. They chased me off themselves, because I was not evil enough for their tastes – I was lucky I found Gandalf when I did.” He looked up at Beorn and met his eyes, usually warm honey – now nothing but cold steel. “I have lived in the Shire as a hobbit now for more than fifty years, which is not much in the long run, but is half a hobbit’s life. There I have farmed and sung and laughed, and I have planted flowers and tended to animals and lived a homely, gentle life.” He paused, glancing at Gandalf, then back at Beorn. “And I have never felt more at home.”

Beorn stared at him hard for many long moments. “Have you sought to harm innocents?”

“No,” said Bilbo truthfully, “not under my own influence – and under the Shadow’s, I fought to not listen.”

He hummed and clicked his teeth for a long time, barely moving as he thought. Gandalf became impatient, but Bilbo knew this wasn’t something to be rushed, and let the great man think for as long as he needed.

Finally, he inclined his head. “I do not like dragons,” he said. “But I like the Shadow far less. Tell me your story, wizard.”

Bilbo was so relieved to hear he was accepted that he didn’t even bother to listen to the rest of the story, except for the few times where Gandalf asked for clarification on something. When the dwarves began to be introduced, he absently noted how quick Ori and Bofur had been, but brushed it aside when no one else commented on it. They must’ve been impatient – it wouldn’t be unlike them.

By the time the whole Company was gathered, Beorn seemed more amused and interested than anything else, and indeed, he seemed to have forgotten Bilbo entirely.

Bilbo took it as a blessing.

They were guided into Beorn’s home to share in a meal with him, to eat and feast and drink. Bilbo was quiet for the most of it, listening with a smile to the stories Beorn told, and then with bittersweet longing to the stories the dwarves told. When it began to darken, his head felt full with information and memories, and he excused himself to go out for a breather of fresh air.

Beorn’s lands were lush and vast, and even in the dim twilight, Bilbo could see far and further still. It was that time of day where crickets were chirping but birds still sung from the trees, and Bilbo drew a deep breath, content in the peace of nature.

Now, dragons have very good memory. It was how Bilbo still managed to remember things from thousands of years ago. Dragons also have very good instincts whom they act upon often. It was how Bilbo still managed to stay alive after all these years. So, when someone behind him called his name, he did not stop to think _why_ or _how_ or _who_ – he simply reacted.

“Dáynith?”

“Hm?” said Bilbo, and turned to find Ori and Bofur watching him nervously, their hands clutched at their chests and eyebrows furrowed.

And then he realized what they’d said.

Oh, _fuck_.

“Don’t panic!” Ori blurted, raising his hands in what was probably meant to be a calming gesture, but only put Bilbo more on edge. “We just – we don’t – ”

Bofur elbowed him in the side and stepped forward, gently taking Bilbo’s elbow. “Let’s talk otherwhere.”

They led him into the hush of trees nearby and sat on the dry ground, Ori and Bofur opposite of Bilbo, their feet folded.

Bilbo’s world was spinning.

Ori looked worried. He looked so incredibly worried.

Bilbo wished he knew why.

“We heard Gandalf,” Bofur explained quietly, expression uncharacteristically solemn, “when he told Beorn about…” He stopped, searched for words. “About you being a dragon. And all that.”

Bilbo said the only thing he could think of. “I’m sorry.”

Ori shook his head, braids dangling around his face. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Ori,” said Bofur sweetly, “tell me why we’re traveling again.”

Undoubtedly, Ori recalled the huge dragon resting within Erebor, and that their goal was to murder it. “Oh,” he said meekly. Then he looked up, eyes wide. “But we would never hurt you!”

Bilbo was still too worried, and too scared, and too horrified, to do much more than snap for breath and blink.

“Maybe not _now_ ,” said Bofur, and gave Ori a stern look, “but before we knew him? Of course he can’t be open about it, you dunderhead!”

Finally, Bilbo found his voice. “What are you going to do?”

They fell quiet.

Bilbo began to shake.

“We just wanted to let you know,” Bofur said softly. “That _we_ know, I mean. And that we won’t tell anyone.”

“And that we support you,” Ori butted in.

Bilbo swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed again. He was lightheaded, every inch of his body itched and tingled. “You,” he said, and wet his lips, “you don’t… mind?”

They shared a look. “We’re… surprised,” Ori tried. “And confused. And a bit shocked.”

“But no,” said Bofur, and smiled, “we don’t mind.”

Bilbo crumbled.

“Oh, _Bilbo_ ,” Ori cooed. He got up on his knees and crawled across the space between them, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Bilbo, did you think we would hate you?”

Bilbo returned the embrace, burying his face in Ori’s neck to hide the tears. Silently, he nodded.

“We would never hate you!” Bofur exclaimed, and then he was there, too, wrapped around Bilbo on the other side.

And Bilbo cried, and cried, and cried, the relief stinging like a blade, weeks and weeks and weeks of worrying and fretting and guilt collapsing over and unto him, the waves of a despairing ocean. Bofur and Ori held him close, not saying a word as he sobbed.

Eventually, the ocean fell into a silent hush. Bilbo pulled away, wiping at his tears. “Sorry,” he muttered, “that was…”

“Not respectable?” Bofur asked, grinning.

“Not respectable,” Bilbo repeated with a wobbly smile.

“Do you still use Bilbo?” asked Ori. “Or – or do you want… Dáynith?”

Bilbo very nearly began crying again. “I’ve been Bilbo for fifty years,” he said, voice thick. “And I’ll be Bilbo for five hundred more, at least.”

Ori hugged him again.

“Oh, be ready,” said Bofur, smug, “he’s gonna ask you all kinds of things now.”

“Go on ahead, Ori,” Bilbo muttered, patting Ori’s hair. “Ask away.”

Bilbo would answer a thousand questions – and he’d be grateful into eternity, if only because they accepted him this once.

They sat in the clearing until the moon was high in the sky, Ori and Bofur asking all sorts of questions, and Bilbo answering to the best of his ability. At one point, Ori fished out a notebook and began to jot down notes.

Eventually, even Ori’s unending well of questions dried out. They staggered to their feet and went back to Beorn’s home, chatting about nothing in particular.

Bilbo felt so relieved and light that he could take off and fly.

Gandalf was waiting for them back in the house. Everyone else had gone to bed by the time they returned. “That was unwise of you,” Gandalf said sternly. “Stay in the house when the sun is not out.”

“Sorry, Gandalf,” they all muttered, somewhat out of synch.

“What could possibly be so important that you would stray so far to speak of it?” Gandalf asked, hands on his hips and expression exasperated.

Bilbo looked about and found no one openly listening. Still, to be safe, he switched to Sindarin. “They heard you speak to Beorn about my origins.”

Gandalf paled, shooting the two dwarves hard looks. “They know?”

“They know,” said Bilbo, in Westron.

“We won’t say,” said Ori quietly, “promise.”

Shaking his head, Gandalf muttered, “the day I trust a dwarf farther than I can throw them…” He raised his voice a slight bit. “There are beds and bedrolls placed out for you around the place. Go rest, now. It’s late.” They made to move past him, but Gandalf put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and held him back.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, inclining his head.

“Do you trust them?” Gandalf muttered.

Bilbo nodded.

“And you are not just emotional?”

“I am always just emotional,” said Bilbo. “But yes.”

He let Bilbo’s shoulder go. “Then I trust them, too. Good night, Bilbo.”

“Good night, Gandalf.”

Bofur and Ori had already found places to sleep, which left only one bed for Bilbo – a small mattress of hay and wool, tucked in-between the sleeping forms of Thorin and Balin. Bilbo thanked his lucky stars it was not Dwalin or Bombur, for they snored something terrible, and it was hard to get them to shut up.

Grasped by the tire that only came from wrenching one’s heart open and weeping, Bilbo crawled into the pile of hay, pulled one of the woolen blankets over him, and fell asleep.

*

Breakfast the next morning was rich in honey and nuts and berries, and Bilbo ate with eager joyousness. The others seemed slightly worried about the lack of Gandalf and Beorn, but Bilbo had a vague sense they were both fine and would return soon, and his reassuring placated the rest of the Company.

After eating, Bilbo spent some time lounging in the lush grass of Beorn’s garden, just listening to nature move around him and the dwarves chatting, laughing, and singing inside. His peace was first broken when Thorin walked up to him, armour gone and hair loose. He looked well, despite his wounds – a smile was upon his face, and his loose hair was combed and flowed in waves down his back.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greeted, sitting up in the tall grass. It reached nearly to his shoulder, though he supposed that didn’t say much. “How fare your wounds?”

“They heal fine and well, thank you,” said Thorin, brushing his hand down the bandages around his torso. “Gandalf gave me much to work with.” He cast a glance over his shoulder – back towards the house, where the volume levels were rising. “Will you walk with me?”

Bilbo blinked, then sat straighter. “Certainly,” he said. “Are your nephews too much again?”

Thorin’s expression turned weird. “How do you know they’re my nephews?”

 _Panic!_ screeched Bilbo’s heart.

 _Lie,_ said Bilbo’s brain, _lie fast and lie well!_

“Oh, come, now,” said Bilbo, grinning up at him, “there are thirteen of you, you thought they would all keep their mouths shut? Besides.” He shrugged. “They do call you uncle, every now and again.”

His expression turned, if possible, even weirder. “They _do_?”

“You… you didn’t know?” Bilbo asked. Slowly, he pushed to his feet, brushing some loose strands of straw off his vest. “Oh, Thorin, they look up to you so much. Did you really not know?”

“With how they pester me,” Thorin grunted, though it sounded good-naturedly enough, “I would assume they wanted me in an early _grave_.”

Bilbo burst out laughing. “Yes, well,” he said, once he got himself under control, “they aren’t mutually exclusive. You wanted to walk?”

“Ah, yes.” Thorin took off in a seemingly random direction. Bilbo had a vague idea of some flower fields and beehives being that way, but he wasn’t certain. “How is this journey treating you?”

“Oh, just fine,” said Bilbo.

Thorin startled. “Really?”

“As it happens, my favourite pastimes include being threatened by trolls, harassed by goblins, and chased by wargs.”

Judging by Thorin’s amused chuckle, the joke hit home. “Fair and well,” he said, “but how about everything else, then? How does that fare?”

Bilbo tilted his head back and let the sun lick his face, and right then, everything felt very okay. “I do not regret a single thing,” he said, and it was true, for the most part. “And I’m glad for this opportunity you have given me.”

Thorin shot him another weird look. “Do you have a death wish, Bilbo?”

“No?”

“You speak gladly of an adventure that has brought you closer to death than I would have liked to think,” Thorin said. “Are you certain you are quite alright in the head?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Oh, you dork. Am I not allowed to enjoy a bit of adrenaline every now and again?”

“Hm. I suppose it’s better that way around.”

“Precisely,” said Bilbo. They had come a fair bit away from the house, now, and stood at the edge of a field of flowers. Bilbo, though he could name maybe half of them, made a mental note to ask Beorn about the rest.

“I have been wondering,” Thorin said, and Bilbo turned to him, curious. Thorin paused, staring down at him – not for long, but enough for it to be suspicious. When he again spoke, it was in a much lighter tone. “Is there a language for flowers?”

If there was one thing Bilbo loved, it was flowers. “Oh, yes,” he said, eager to discuss one of his favourite topics. “If you’re talking about meaning related to different sorts, that is.” At Thorin’s nod, Bilbo smiled. “Then, yes, absolutely. I’m not the most well-versed in it, but I know a few dozen or so.”

“Really?” said Thorin, raising an eyebrow. “How about, say, roses?”

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo chastised, “those are the simplest of them all. Love, of course.”

“Oh,” said Thorin, and reddened a bit. “That does make sense, I suppose – ruby, for us, means the same.”

Bilbo nodded. “I always did think, if a rose were to be a gem, it would be a ruby.”

They had crossed the field half-way. “I wish I could say the same,” said Thorin, amused, “but truth to be told, I never gave it much thought.”

“Your honesty is valued and cherished,” said Bilbo, and gave him a pompous bow.

Thorin laughed, and then they fell silent. For a while they walked like that, comfortable in the stillness.

And then Bilbo decided he might as well shoot his shot. “I know you despise Smaug,” he began, and when Thorin’s expression darkened, he immediately added, “with good reason! He is a terrible beast! But, ah – do you think all dragons are?”

“Yes,” said Thorin immediately, his good mood gone. “They are foul creatures. Bilbo, did you not know this?”

“I did, I did,” Bilbo assured. He had the terrible sensation of a rock covered in syrup being stuck in his throat. “I’m just curious for your thoughts, is all – do you think _all_ dragons bad? Also those who mean good? Are they born cruel?”

Thorin shot him the third weird look of the day. “Dragons never mean good, of course they are cruel.”

It was like a shovel to the face.

“You are right, of course,” Bilbo said, nodding. His heart broke, over and over, an eternal loop he knew not how to end. Tears prodded at the back of his eyes. “I was, hm, I just wanted to be sure.”

His mother had given her life to save his, and his siblings’.

He was the only one who had survived.

_Of course they are cruel._

They returned to walking in silence, though Bilbo couldn’t pay it much mind. He was busy patching up his bruised hope and attempting to keep himself in one piece. Thorin, though, seemed to be a bit bothered, as it didn’t take long before he half-heartedly asked, “what do you think of our host?”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Who, Beorn?” Bilbo asked, hoping his eyes weren’t too red-rimmed when he glanced up at Thorin.

“Yes.”

“He is a kind man,” Bilbo allowed. “Dangerous, maybe, yes, but kind. I do not fear him.”

Thorin nodded. “Good,” he said. “That is g – ”

Any further he did not get, for he stumbled forward, expression twisting together in pain.

“Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed, darting forward to support his weight – a hand on his shoulder and the other his arm, feet braced against the ground to keep him up. Frantic, worried he might be hurt this far away from help, Bilbo asked, “Are you alright?”

Thorin wheezed something that might’ve sounded like a yes if Bilbo had been listening more closely, but he was a bit lightheaded at how Thorin smelled this close (scorched wood and firesmoke and stone and dwarf, dwarf, dwarf).

The scent was so much stronger than he remembered.

When Thorin’s hand fluttered to press against Bilbo’s side, Bilbo snapped back to focus. “Thorin?” he asked meekly, glancing up at his face – finding it no longer twisted in pain, but rather transfixed. It quite looked like the expression he’d bore the first time he saw Erebor, after the Misty Mountains.

“You are strong,” Thorin croaked.

Bilbo’s head spun. He was so close – just inches away – and he could hear his heartbeat, quicker than usual, could see every little detail in his face, every bruise and wrinkle and crevice, and – Thorin was leaning forward, the slightest bit, head tilting just a little –

_Dragons never mean good, of course they are cruel._

Guilt-ridden and hurt, Bilbo cleared his throat and stepped back. “Thank you,” he said, offering a feeble smile. “That happens when you plant a garden.”

“Right,” said Thorin, expression perplexed. “Of course.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I don’t think it wise to walk any further,” Bilbo said softly, not looking at Thorin at all. “We are far from the house and any of the others.”

A few moments of silence. Then Thorin, just as softly, said, “you are right, of course.”

“I do believe it is about lunch time,” said Bilbo, and began to walk back.

*

Bilbo’s assumption about lunch was correct. They’d all gathered at Beorn’s table and were chattering cheerily away while being served. Beorn and Gandalf, however, were nowhere in sight.

When Bilbo and Thorin stepped inside, the table cheered. “We thought ye’d gotten lost!” Gloin hollered.

“Lost?” said Bilbo, who had decided to pretend like nothing had happened out in the fields. “On his own, maybe, but not with a hobbit.”

To that they laughed loudly and fiercely, and they were both dragged to the table. Bilbo, however, found himself unable to eat much. Truth to be told, he ate about the same as any of the dwarves, but that was still far less than a hobbit usually would, and he ate in silence.

When he finished, he slipped quietly away, seeking out a silent and still corner where he could mope and come to terms with his own emotional state. He’d been a fool to hope, but the positive reactions from Ori and Bofur had made him brave and daring.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve just not thought about it.

There was a cool, dark corner he hid away in, closing his eyes and hoping he’d just forget where he was and what he’d done. Mahal, he was stupid – why had he allowed himself this? Thorin would hate him if he knew who and what he was, and Bilbo could not – would not – keep it hidden forever.

No. No, he couldn’t let this go any further. For his own sake.

For Thorin’s sake.

*

It was Bofur who eventually found him. “Bilbo?” he said, sticking his head around the corner and peering at him from over a plank.

Bilbo had never felt more like a small mouse. “Here,” he croaked, and wiped frantically at his cheeks, hoping Bofur wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Bofur frowned, but he seemed worried, rather than angry. “Why have you tucked yourself away here? We’ve been looking for you.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, and shrugged a bit awkwardly where he was pressed against the dusty wall, “you can tell everyone I’m fine and want to be left alone for a bit. Thank you.”

Bofur stared at him for a moment, then disappeared.

Bilbo sniffed, wiping at his cheeks again. He had kind of hoped Bofur would stay, for there were only three people he could speak to about this particular issue, and Bofur was the kindest.

Maybe a minute later, Bofur came back. “Okay, I told them,” he said, and began to squirm and crawl between the planks.

“B – Bofur?” Bilbo stuttered, staring, wide-eyed, as the much bigger dwarf managed to squeeze in to sit before him. It looked cramped and incredibly uncomfortable, but Bofur only smiled. “What part of – what part of ‘left alone’ do you not understand?”

Bofur shook his head with a smile. “Dwarrow don’t believe in such,” he said, and then the smile fell. He reached out to him, gently taking his hand. “Talk to me, Bilbo. What happened out there? I don’t like seeing you like this.”

How could he still act like this towards him when he _knew_? “I just,” Bilbo said, and shut his mouth. He tried to find the words, but could only shake his head and battle tears.

“Aye, laddie, it’s okay,” Bofur muttered, patting his hand. “Cry. Get it out.”

“Why,” said Bilbo, and sniffed, “why are you _kind_? When you _know_?”

Bofur squeezed closer. “Bilbo,” he said, solemnly, “don’t ask me this again. You’re worth all the kindness in the world.”

It filled him with warmth, and it filled him with sorrow, and it filled him with such incredible pain. Bofur, kind and gentle Bofur – why couldn’t Thorin be like that?

And Bilbo was several thousand years Bofur’s senior, but right then he felt very much like a pouting fauntling – which was how he found himself admitting, “Thorin doesn’t think so.”

There was silence for a moment, then Bofur squeezed his hand. “Is that why you’ve hidden away here? Did he say something?”

Bilbo shook his head, then, after a pause, nodded. “I,” he said, then swallowed, and swallowed. And for the first time, he said it out loud: “I think I love him.”

There was more than _think_ , there was bone-deep _certainty_. Bilbo would do anything in his power for Thorin, would repeat this life a hundred times over if it was needed. He’d lay his own life before his blade if it would spare him.

But he couldn’t say that to Bofur.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Bofur muttered, and tried to give Bilbo a hug. It didn’t really work out, their location considered, but the gesture was nice.

What Bilbo also couldn’t say, because it felt almost _surreal_ to think about, was that Thorin might be interested _in return_.

It was terrifying. It was _horrifying_.

And Bilbo was going to ignore it.

Bofur pulled a bit back, offering Bilbo a lopsided smile. He took off his hat and put it on Bilbo’s much smaller head. It smelled like moss and dust and dwarf, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “Will you come back out with me?” Bofur asked.

Bilbo figured he couldn’t sit here and mope the whole day, so he drily said, “if you can get out, yes.”

As it turned out, Bofur could get out, though it was with much struggling (from Bofur) and laughter (from Bilbo). And when Bilbo came to the living room and joined in on the songs and Thorin smiled at him with stars in his eyes, it didn’t seem too impossible to get through it all.

*

They made to leave the next day, packing their bags with materials and food granted by Beorn.

Bilbo tapped Gandalf’s hand while everyone were busy, and when Gandalf glanced down at him with curiosity in his eyes, Bilbo gave a sheepish smile. “I know you plan to leave us,” he said, “but would you happen to have more of that potion you gave me, after the goblins?”

Gandalf’s curiosity flattened into worry. “You think you will find use for it?”

“I hope not,” said Bilbo, “but if I must… it would be much easier if I had it with me.”

“Naturally,” said Gandalf. He began to rummage through his pockets. “Forgive me, Bilbo. I had not thought of it.”

Bilbo took the offered vial when Gandalf handed it over. “Thank you.”

Gandalf leaned a bit down and clasped Bilbo’s shoulder. “Good luck, dear boy.”

“And the same to you,” said Bilbo solemnly. And so, with anticipation in their bones, they made their way towards the dark splotch in the distance.

Mirkwood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are GREATLY appreciated! I'm currently working on chapter twelve (i'm past BOTFA and dealing with the aftermath now) and it's going a bit slow... but that would speed it up, I'm sure ;) If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I might answer even if they're spoiler-y ^^


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap's a bit shorter than the others, so you're getting it early ^^ Thank you all for the wonderful comments!

**Chapter Five**

_“No,” squeaked Bilbo, which was one of the only words he had managed to pronounce so far in the hoarse draconic language they had never named._

_His sisters had already gone, and he – the oldest – still remained on the edge, staring down at the darkness below; a gaping maw ready to swallow him whole._

_Mother nudged him gently, her tough scales rough against his still-hardening ones. “Yes, come now, little one,” she muttered. “You’ve practiced and tried and flexed. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”_

_Bilbo shot a skeptical look down into the depths, then stretched his winged arms. A white-tipped feather got loose and fell off, drifting away through the emptiness. The darkness seemed to pull it in. “Dark,” he said, with a frightened look at mother._

_“That is what happens when the sun goes down,” said mother kindly._

_Yes, Bilbo wasn’t stupid, thank you very much. He just had a healthy fear of heights, which he reasoned made sense, after all he’d been through._

_Mother sighed, a puff of warm breath hitting Bilbo square in the face. “Please?” she said._

_And Bilbo loved his mother for the life she had given him and the care she showed and the things she taught, he loved her, loved her, loved her, with everything he had and then a bit more, and so he grit his teeth and closed his eyes and jumped._

_(When he got back from the flight, he told her his name, and she tucked him into her feathers and whispered sweet words of comfort.)_

*

The first night of Mirkwood, Bilbo had opening guard.

The darkness of Mirkwood was not something he would forget ever, he thought – never before and never since had he experienced something like it. Yet, he expected to see just the slightest bit now, due to his eyes.

He was sorely disappointed. It was as dark as dark could be, and impossible to see anything but faint, glowing eyes between the trees.

Bilbo was not afraid, and though it evoked buried memories of horror and nail-splitting worry, he knew better, now. The creatures of Mirkwood wished them no harm, lest said creatures were spiders. And so he spent the most part of his watch staring at the eyes in return, knowing his glowed just the same as theirs.

Most of them retreated, after he set his watchful gaze on them.

When he got too tired to go on, he fumbled his way through the pile of dwarves and prodded the next – Bifur, who was perhaps the easiest to find with the axe in his head – before he fell off into deep, deep sleep.

He dreamt of his mom. Not Shai-Tayäl, his mother, but _Belladonna,_ the one of his first life. Over the years he had thought of her less and less, even after he got friendly with this Belladonna. Yet that did not mean he _forgot_.

That night, he dreamt of her for the first time in a long, long while.

He was in the kitchen of Bag End, but a little fauntling, and she stood with her hands on her hips, so tall and mighty her face was shrouded in darkness and distance. “ _You are a disgrace, Bilbo Baggins_ ,” she said, her voice angry and hurt all at once, “ _who are you to decide the fate of so many?_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo choked, and the tears flowed freely, flooding the floor. “I’m sorry, mom!”

“ _What happened to the kind hobbit I loved?_ ” she asked, distorted – alone. “ _Where is my little boy? You took him, you did, you dragon-pest!_ ”

“No,” Bilbo sobbed, “no, mom, no, I’m him, I’m him, mom, it’s me, it’s your Bilbo!”

She turned from him, her long dark hair stretching down, down, a waterfall of darkness. “ _And now you are flooding us_ ,” she said, “ _would you quiet your whining?”_

Bilbo tried, he really did, but he was so small and so young and so hurt. “I’m so – sorry!”

“ _Are you really?”_ asked mom, and Bilbo woke.

He sat up in the pitch blackness, still as a mouse as he heaved for breath.

Belladonna and Bungo had been too nervous to plant a seedling with Bilbo around, and by the time they were good friends, it was too late. They never bore child, and Bilbo never stopped feeling guilty over stealing their righteous child.

*

Walking through the woods was harsh and hard on everyone involved – even Bilbo, who had known what to expect. They all chose to cope with it in their own ways; Bilbo through silence, others through grumbling.

Fili and Kili would probably have been wise to choose otherwise.

“Hello, Bilbo,” Kili chirped, having fallen behind to walk at the end of the troop.

“Lovely weather,” said Fili lightly.

Bilbo gave them a dry look. “What is it now?”

“Well, see,” said Fili. “How do we put this nicely?”

Kili solved the issue with ease. “Uncle likes you.”

Bilbo froze in his tracks.

“And we think you like him, too,” said Fili. “So, since our only goal in life is to be a pest and a bother, we figured we might as well tell you to make a move.”

_Dragons never mean good, of course they are cruel._

“I will do _no_ such thing,” said Bilbo, and bristled.

Both Fili and Kili’s expressions fell. They shared a look, then Kili tentatively asked, “But why not? You like each other!”

“I do not like Thorin,” Bilbo stated, which technically was not a lie, since he _loved_ him, rather. “And even if I had, things would be more complicated than that. He is a dwarven king, and I am a – a hobbit. A simple hobbit of the Shire.” They looked crestfallen. Bilbo sighed, and, with dread coiling thick around him, decided to take pity on them. “Though you may still call me uncle, if you so wish.”

The crestfallen look turned into a confused frown, which then morphed into a mischievous grin. It was eerie, how it was echoed on them both. “Okay, uncle!” they chorused, and then they were gone – to cause chaos otherwhere, Bilbo supposed.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to regret enabling them.

*

Bilbo held guard that night, as well – this time, of his own free choosing. The darkness could be intimidating, but he felt the need to intimidate it a slight bit in return. There was some worry to it, as well. _He_ knew the eyes were not dangerous, but the dwarves did not.

And so he sat in the suffocating stillness and listened, and watched, and glared.

He stiffened at a sound behind him. A moment later, though, he relaxed – it was a bedroll shuffling, and likely just one of the dwarves changing positions.

No such luck.

“Bilbo?”

Thorin, his voice thick with sleep and crackling with worry.

“Here,” Bilbo called, the worry seeping into him as well. There was little that could knock Thorin off his guard like that.

When the oddly specific sound of ‘dwarf shuffling around blindly’ behind him became too loud, Bilbo gave in. He didn’t want to wake the others, and though ‘dwarf shuffling around blindly’ wouldn’t be enough to stir most of the dwarves of the Company, the need to be careful was too strong. “Thorin,” he whispered loudly, twisting to face the camp. “My _eyes_ , follow my eyes!”

The shuffling stopped for a moment. Thorin’s voice came through the darkness, cracking, “why do they glow?”

“Hobbit thing,” Bilbo lied, and listened as the shuffling came closer. “Careful, I’m on a rock!”

Thorin hissed something dark in Khuzdul and then something poked Bilbo in the side. He gave a startled squeak, but calmed at Thorin’s quiet and panicked, “it’s me! It’s just me!”

There was some fumbling with limbs and arms, but then Thorin was clutching at Bilbo’s hand – and Bilbo, curse his soul, was clutching right back. With some assistance from Bilbo, Thorin found his way around the rock and tentatively sat beside him.

He was surprisingly warm, even through his clothes.

“Can you see anything, Master Burglar?” asked Thorin. He didn’t let go.

“Hm, no,” said Bilbo, and shook his head for good measure. “Not even burglars’ eyes can pierce _this_ darkness.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Thorin brushed his thumb across Bilbo’s knuckles. His hand was also warm – much warmer than Bilbo had expected – and the pads of his fingers calloused and rough. “Are you alright, Bilbo?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, for he was, both physically and mentally. “Why?”

A sigh from Thorin. “It’s this forsaken forest,” he muttered. “It infects my thoughts and dreams.”

Bilbo squeezed his hand. “You had a nightmare,” he guessed.

Tired, but amused, Thorin said, “you have a keen mind, Master Baggins.”

_You have keen eyes, Master Baggins._

“Oh, sure,” said Bilbo, and rolled his eyes. Then he realized, “but you called for me when you woke?”

Thorin fell silent.

 _Oh_ , thought Bilbo, and his heart cracked a little. “You dreamt of me,” he guessed, again.

“Aye,” Thorin grumbled. “Nothing bad.”

“It must’ve been,” Bilbo shot back, “if you were worried for my safety.”

There was another long, long pause. “I am always worried for your safety,” Thorin whispered.

Bilbo swallowed. Swallowed. Swallowed.

_Dragons never mean good, of course they are cruel._

“Well,” said Bilbo, and put his other hand atop Thorin’s, so that he was cradling it close. He tugged it up to rest it against his chest; Gandalf’s necklace was cold against his skin. “I am alright, my fair dwarf, so you are free to go rest once again. Do not let the darkness take you, though it is long and foul.”

Thorin chuckled softly, the muscles in his hands twitching. “Then I shan’t,” he said. “Thank you for indulging me.” After a moment of lingering, he stood, fingers fluttering against Bilbo’s skin, as light as a feather.

Thankful to the darkness for shielding his blush, Bilbo asked, “will you find your way?”

“It is a few meters, Bilbo,” said Thorin drily, “not six miles.”

“Right,” said Bilbo, and thankfully Thorin’s grunt of pain when he stumbled in Bombur covered Bilbo’s amused, “shoddy old fool.”

*

There were two things Bilbo had been worried about regarding Mirkwood: the black river, and the elves. The river _itself_ was impossible to avoid, but Bilbo dearly hoped to not have to deal with any of the dwarves falling in this time.

With a lot of placating Bombur and reassuring the others, they all got across with only some minor scratches.

On the other side, Bilbo breathed a huge sigh of relief.

*

They had been walking for days, and they were getting tired.

“Bilbo,” Ori sighed, looking at him with cloudy eyes, “why can’t you just… fly us out of here.”

Bilbo had never been so grateful for the noisiness of dwarves before, for now it covered Ori’s question from the other’s ears. “Ori,” he said quietly, “you said you would not talk of it.”

The haze cleared, and Ori straightened. He slapped a hand atop his mouth, eyes widening. “Oh, no! Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, Bilbo, I forgot myself – ”

Smiling, Bilbo patted his shoulder. “No harm done. Besides, even if I could, I would not have been able.” When Ori’s look turned confused, he elaborated, “the forest is too dense and I would only hurt myself, which would not be wise, if I were to carry all of you.”

“That’s true,” Ori said, nodding. The fog seeped back into his eyes. “That’s true,” he repeated, and walked away.

May Mahal see them safe on the other side of this forest before too long, thought Bilbo bitterly, lest they went insane before they saw sunlight again.

*

They were angry. They were tired and angry and Bilbo could smell it on the air.

Why were they angry?

He hated this.

*

“We need a vantage point,” Balin said, and the only reason Bilbo heard it was because he was at the front of the group, for once. “Can one of the boys climb a tree? Goodness, I can’t stay in here for much longer or I’ll lose my mind.”

“You and I both,” Thorin muttered. He glanced around, spotted Bilbo, and lit up. “Bilbo! You can climb trees, yes?”

Bilbo could not climb trees, but he had experience in climbing other things. “I can try,” he allowed. He figured, if he managed the first time, then he could manage now.

He had to be quick. The spiders were coming.

Now, Bilbo had never been _fond_ of climbing. Besides, the air up in the trees was thicker and dustier than down on the ground. He scampered and fought his way up through the branches, leafless and dead but swathed in silk-fine spiderwebs. The bark, thick and gnarly, dug into Bilbo’s palms and knees. Had he not been so bruised and tough-hided already, it would’ve broken skin.

When his hands found leaves – dying and dehydrated, crisp and so brown they were nearly black, yes, but _leaves_ – he could have cried, if he’d had the time for it. As it was, he did not, so he only climbed on ahead, more determined now than before.

The feeling of sunlight and breeze on his face after the thundering stillness was akin to the feeling of flying for the first time: wonderful, freeing, like he’d been living in darkness his whole life and suddenly laid eyes upon the sun. He wished he could bask in it, but already he heard the creaking of branches bending beneath great weight, and so he spun, searching the horizon for the shape of Erebor.

If they were quick enough, they could make it without the horrible stay in Mirkwood. Wearing the Ring left Bilbo with such a thick, sickening feeling in his gut – like rotting honey – and he knew that if they were to survive the prisons, he’d have to wear it much and often.

There! To the right! The peek of the Lonely Mountain, standing tall and proud like a tooth in the landscape, shrouded in wispy clouds.

“Right,” muttered Bilbo, and pointed in the direction. “Right, right, right. Okay.” He disappeared back beneath the leaves, allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of daylight, and began his hurried descent.

But Bilbo had forgotten a tiny little minor detail: he had never tried to climb quickly down a Mirkwood tree. In his haste, he stumbled in a twig, lost his footing, and began to fall.

 _You gotta be fucking kidding me_ , he thought sourly, and slammed into the first spiderweb.

*

Bilbo was drowning. He was in the Brandywine River and he was drowning, the water dark and inky above him, pressing down less like water and more like stone. It was a battle for life, but his knuckles and nails were scraping helplessly against nothing at all, and Bilbo basked, kicked, tried to scream –

He opened his eyes and stared at a spider.

 _Oh, Mahal,_ thought Bilbo, and fumbled for Sting.

After killing the spider and freeing himself from the cocoon of web, Bilbo began looking for his dwarves. Surprisingly enough, most of the spiders left him alone. Some of them came close enough for him to touch, but when he snarled at them, they backed off, hissing.

Could they smell dragon on him? Or was there something else about him they did not like?

Whatever it was, they dismissed it when he found the rest of the Company and began hacking away at the web. Dragon or no dragon, it seemed the spiders did not at all like when their food was messed with.

Disgruntled, Bilbo slipped the Ring onto his finger, shuddering when the shadows swallowed him. The fight with the spiders was a short one – after killing two and impaling three, they retreated, hissing about _invisible_ and _sharp-tooth_ and _wing-beast_.

Apparently _invisible_ dragons were a bit too much, even for giant hungry spiders.

With a stream of curses accompanying every move, Bilbo cut the other dwarves free. All hope was not lost – until the elves showed up, Bilbo would consider them free. And if they moved fast enough, and fought hard enough, then maybe they could get away in time.

After a last check that he had gotten every dwarf, Bilbo tore off the Ring and scrambled down to the forest floor. “Everyone alright?” he asked, voice thin with frenzy, glancing frantically around at the dwarves that were stirring and ripping themselves free. “Bifur? Bofur?” He ran around cutting the remaining cocoons with Sting, dragging and pushing dwarves to their feet. “Hurry! The spiders will come back – and elves, with them!”

That got them moving. Grunts of ‘ _elves!?’_ and _‘nasty treeshaggers shan’t get me!_ ’ as they crawled and clambered to their feet.

As the spiders approached, Bilbo slipped the Ring back on. He slew three spiders before they realized who they were dealing with and wailed in frustration – and Bilbo thought that maybe, _maybe_ , they’d be able to get away –

An arrow of elvish make shot past his ear and buried deep in the mouth of a nearby spider.

Bilbo closed his eyes.

Mahal blast these elves.

*

He kept to the edges of the gathering, flittering around, invisible. Every now and again an elf would look in his direction with confusion, and he would hurry away from them as quietly as he could. Curse them and their excellent hearing.

At last, the dwarves were led away, and Bilbo grit his teeth and followed.

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bofur hissed, “where’s Bilbo?”

The open and raw worry on Thorin’s face hurt Bilbo to his very core.

The fact that he could not reassure him hurt even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shai-Tayäl is from my made-up language, Täk. It's part of a world I've been building for four years or so now (but Täk has always been a stand-in whenever I've needed fictional languages before). Shai-Tayäl means 'opal death', and is a nod to Bilbo's mother's coloration. She was nearly his spitting opposite, with pale white feathers, light blue scales, and white horns and claws. Bilbo has, however, inherited her claws.
> 
> I drew art for this chapter! https://louthegreatfurrry.tumblr.com/post/629724724645314560/fanart-for-chapter-five-of-through-the-darkness


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing: oh this is a long chapter!  
> me, editing: nevermind...  
> me, checking the wordcount: 6k????
> 
> in conclusion: i never know the length of literally anything. enjoy this maybe-long chapter!

**Chapter Six**

_The first time Bilbo was whipped was the day he truly realized he was not a hobbit anymore. It was before his scales had hardened, but after he had first flown, and he had never before been out of the den on his own._

_He had known he was in a training camp, of course – he wasn’t stupid. But, still, he’d thought they would not harm the young, even in their blind hatred._

_He’d been wrong. The guards were orc-like creatures, though stronger and fiercer than the orcs Bilbo had known, and they were **cruel**. Like vulture they descended upon him, laughing uproariously as they went to work. Bilbo was not much bigger than their torso, and their cackling mixed with his pained whines and cries._

_The mix of those sounds – the crack of the whip, his scales shattering, his own screams and the orc-like laughter – became the overture of his doom._

_After they finished up with him, they left him there on the ground to bleed, dirt and grime gathering in his wounds. He was certain he would die. If not there, then taken away by other orcs to be imprisoned._ _He’d heard their sorrowful howls, at times. The weak and old were put in cages and scourged for parts, slowly and gruesomely, and rarely was rest – in any form, whether it be sleep or death – granted to them._

_Mother came for him. Her paws placed heavy on either side of him, the low rumbling of her furious growls thundering down her throat and chest. Gently, she took him in her mouth – he had not been held like so since his hatching – and carried him back to the den, which now seemed like the most cozy and homely place. “Dáynith,” she muttered, and licked his wounds clean, “Dáynith, hatchling, what were you thinking?”_

_Bilbo didn’t answer. He didn’t want to admit he’d had hope._

_The wounds healed, but the scars did not. He would bear more flogging scars later on, though none as deep or fierce as the first._

_They would follow him forever._

*

Through the years, Bilbo had had plenty of time to think of all the things he could try and do in the many situations he feared they might get into during the March on Erebor. Since he had not been capable of writing much as a dragon, he had not written any of them down, but one still stood out in his mind: in Thranduil’s halls, the barrels were ideal.

That, of course, meant that Bilbo would have to wait until the party that had brought them freedom the first time around.

Which, naturally, meant that he had to ensure all his dwarves would remain fit for fighting – including the stubborn fool in the basement.

*

He found Balin first. The poor dwarf breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing him – and see him he did, for Bilbo had ripped the Ring off the moment he could. “Bilbo,” he said, clutching at the bars. “Oh, what a relief, you are alright. And on the proper side of the bars!”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo drily. “Listen, Balin, I have a plan.”

Balin closed his eyes and muttered what sounded like a prayer. When he opened his eyes again, they were warm. “What would we do without you, lad?”

“Starve, probably,” said Bilbo. “The plan involves waiting… a week or two, I think.”

Falling quiet, Balin mused it over. “You know I trust you,” he said, “but Bilbo… are you sure what you’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will not complain,” Balin said, and inclined his head. “Are the others alright?”

Bilbo shrugged helplessly. “Their locations are still lost to me, I’m afraid. I’ll inform you as soon as I find them.”

“Thank you,” said Balin. He shook his head, an expression of wonder on his face. “If you get us out of this, we will be forever indebted to you.”

“Oh, well,” Bilbo muttered, scratching at his neck. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

And before Balin could ask him what he meant of that, Bilbo slipped on the Ring and ran off.

He had similar conversations with the others. Fili and Kili, bless their souls, had been thrown into different cells and were overjoyed to hear the other was doing alright. Dori outright burst into tears when Bilbo assured him both Ori and Nori were safe (and Ori not alone, sharing a cell with Bofur). Dwalin nodded solemnly when Bilbo admitted the plan would involve waiting, while Oin and Gloin, who sat together, began loudly complaining.

They were relieved to see him hale and whole, though. In the end, they all yielded to his plan of waiting – with a little coercing of sneaking in food, of course.

“But now I must take my leave,” Bilbo said to the last dwarf – Bombur, who’d hugged him through the bars. “I have yet to find Thorin.”

Thorin was, in truth, the only dwarf Bilbo remembered how to find. It was a trip he had taken often, last time, and it seemed like his feet had not forgotten how to take him there. Around that corner, down those stairs, across that hall, beneath that archway, through the door, and –

“Thorin!” Bilbo called, as loudly as he dared, grasping the bars tightly.

“…Bilbo?”

“Yes, you daft cow, come on!”

And out from the shadows stepped Thorin, looking as though an angel had come before him. “ _Bilbo_ ,” he said, reverence on his tone. “I thought you – ”

“I know what you thought,” Bilbo interrupted, quite uncomfortable. He did not at all deserve to be looked at in such a way. “But see, I am quite alright – as are all the others. How about you?”

Thorin came up to the bars. “Naught but some bruises and cuts,” he said. “And Fili, and Kili?”

“Both perfectly alright,” said Bilbo. “Listen, Thorin – I have a plan. I have not told the others of it in its entirety, for they will refuse to go through with it… lest I have your support.” Here he leveled Thorin with a heavy look.

He straightened, putting on his solemn expression. “I’m listening.”

Bless Mahal. “There will be a party in two weeks’ time,” Bilbo promptly began, “and there are good opportunities for me to get my paws on keys for your cells.”

“You _marvel_ ,” said Thorin.

“Uhm, and then we’ll have to escape down the river in empty barrels.”

A pause. “I take it back,” said Thorin.

Bilbo threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “Look,” he sighed, “we will not get through the gates, and there are no other ways out. Even if we _did_ get through the gates, we would be chased down. We do not have food, and Lake Town or Erebor are both days away from here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Mahal_ , Thorin, I came to you because I thought you might listen to _reason_ for once in your stubborn life.”

Thorin was silent for a moment, gaze averted. Then he sighed and nodded. “You are right, of course. I apologize. I did not mean to doubt you.”

“Will you stand by me, then?” asked Bilbo, and he knew he was fretting, but he needed this to work. “When I announce the plan?”

And Thorin looked at him with eyes that could make orcs write poetry and said, “I will always stand by you.”

*

Though Bilbo’s memories of the last time in Thranduil’s Halls were plagued by boredom, loneliness, and despair, he soon found that he had quite enough to fill the waiting hours with.

First was of course taking the same trip to every cell to inform every dwarf that every _other_ dwarf was alright and safe.

Then, he found it only logical to get a feel of where everything was, so he began to explore the vast halls and corridors. Luckily for him, the whole place was open and light, and so he rarely got lost.

Following his nose – and hiding away in shadows and corners – Bilbo found his way to the kitchens. They were not heavily guarded – no, in fact they were not guarded at all. It was quite easy to slip in and nick a loaf and some apples, which was all he dared bring along for now.

He ate it himself, figuring that while the dwarves would be fed as prisoners, Bilbo would not.

Afterwards he explored a bit more, noting where the important things were. At one point, he figured he might as well draw a map. _If only I’d had some paper_ , he mourned, and went straight back to the dwarves to hear if any of them had any scraps on their beings.

Ori the Scribe did, of course, and he was loath to let go of it. When Bilbo explained his purpose, however, he was allowed to take it – on one condition: Ori got to keep it afterwards. It was an easy bargain to accept.

A pen Bilbo managed to find lying around in a library, and he stuffed it in a pocket when no one were looking.

It took two days to finish the map, in-between message running and stealing food. _Quite a masterpiece_ , thought Bilbo to himself. In all honesty, the map was fairly crude, and many lines were shaky or etched across several times. With the circumstances in mind, though, it wasn’t that bad.

Bilbo immediately decided to take it to Thorin.

“You made a _map_?” Thorin asked, incredulous. He was sitting on the stone floor, as was Bilbo – their shoulders pressed together on either side of the bars. Bilbo’s crude map was laid out before them, squeezed in-between two bars, so that they both had a half on their side. “You never cease to amaze me.”

“It is a few inky lines on old parchment,” said Bilbo drily. “And it is missing much.”

“It is more than any other has done,” Thorin argued. “Will you show me the route you want us to take?”

Nodding, Bilbo leaned forward to point and explain. Thorin proved himself a good listener, nodding along and asking questions only when necessary. Not that it was necessary often – Bilbo was also a good teacher.

After Bilbo finished, they sat in silence.

Thorin was warm. Why was he so warm? He was even warmer than that night in Mirkwood.

“How fare the others?” asked Thorin, breaking the silence.

 _Bilbo Baggins_ , Bilbo said sternly to himself, _remember what you promised_. “As well as can be,” Bilbo said truthfully. “They wish they were otherwhere, of course, and groan and complain as only dwarves can – ” Here Thorin snorted. “ – but the fact that they _are_ complaining, and not moping in silence, should be proof enough that they will be alright.”

“And are they eating?” Thorin fretted.

“The elves are not evil, Thorin,” said Bilbo, and rolled his eyes. “They would not let you starve, even if I wasn’t also feeding you from the kitchens.”

“And,” said Thorin, and Bilbo would strangle him if he weren’t so fond of him, “are _you_ eating?”

At that, Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh. “Need I remind you I am a hobbit?” he teased, poking Thorin’s chest. “I’m eating better now than I have any other time on our quest – excepting, of course, Beorn.”

“Good,” said Thorin, and sounded like he meant it. His hand fumbled between the bars, and Bilbo let him take his – squeezing tightly.

*

When Bilbo was not busy stealing, making illegal maps, or playing messenger bird, he was spying. Most notably, on Tauriel. He remembered, vaguely, something about Kili having an interest in her – and almost certainly her helping out with their escape from Mirkwood, and also in the last battle. It would be nice, he mused, if at least _he_ could manage to make some elven friends, so that they were not entirely doomed on the battlefield.

The main issue with that plan was, of course, that Bilbo was invisible. And so he set to lurk, and spy, and follow her around. It led to many interesting sights and overheard conversations, and maybe once upon a time Bilbo would have felt guilty, but he had gossiped too often in the Shire to feel like that now.

He found himself hoping that Kili would show interest in Tauriel again, and that Tauriel would do the impossible and return the favour. She was a wonderful lass with a good heart, and she would do Kili good. There was, of course, the whole issue of her being an elf and he being a dwarf – but, Yavanna have mercy, if they all got through this alive he’d be happy to defend them before an entire court of all seven dwarven kingdoms, and in dragon form, none the less.

Hopefully it would not come to that. It would probably lead to his death. Still, Bilbo was stubborn.

He’d been on his way back from the kitchens, carrying a bottle of water – Bifur had so kindly asked him to bring some for him – when Tauriel walked by, looking almost secretive in the way she cast glances over her shoulders. Bilbo, intrigued, fell into step behind her.

Her path led him past Bifur’s cell, and Bilbo carefully and quietly slipped the Ring off, handed the bottle to Bifur, and just as carefully and quietly slipped it back on before hurrying after Tauriel.

He could not believe his eyes when she came to a stop before Kili’s cell. There was a mischievous grin on her face as she leaned down and teasingly said, “and how terrible is the night going for my least favourite prisoner?”

Bilbo raised a hand to his mouth. Then he scowled and lowered it again. Of all his prayers the Valar decided to answer! Could they not have chosen something of greater importance? Mahal!

Kili replied, snarkily, “oh, quite horrible, elf, or I’d be laughing in your pretty face.”

“Is that so?” said Tauriel, and Bilbo quietly slipped past them to sink to the floor on the ledge beside Kili’s cell – hidden from view, even if he had dared remove the Ring. Tauriel continued, “is that to say you laugh at beauty? You must not laugh much, then.”

“Ai,” said Kili, and Bilbo blinked in surprise at the sound – he had learned it was considered _archaic_ to dwarves, to use ‘ai’ as an expression of emotion (this, for some reason, did not include the use of ‘aye’. Bilbo could still just barely hear the difference). When Kili continued, Bilbo almost felt _dizzy_ , for his tone was one that bore utter reverence. “Nay, I have not seen much beauty, for I have not seen you until now. Seventy-seven miserable years it has been, though I did not know so, before.”

The mocking laughter Bilbo expected never came. Instead, what he heard was a fond, “pretty words, Master Dwarf. Even prettier would they be, if they were true.”

“You do not understand,” Kili whispered, and Bilbo could almost _taste_ his expression – his wide, honest eyes. The tightness to his mouth that only came when he was serious. “I have never spoken more truly.”

They fell quiet at that. Bilbo rubbed at his cheeks and glanced skyward, hoping he would not sniffle too much should he start crying. He had always been fond of young love.

In hushed tones, Tauriel muttered, “It is strange to say… but I trust you with this, Kili, son of Dis.”

And all at once everything crumbled around Bilbo, for this elf knew more of Kili than Bilbo knew of his own Thorin, and Lord, how Bilbo yearned, how Bilbo wanted, how Bilbo so desperately _needed_ to belong in Thorin’s arms, to ride out the storm with him, to fold into him and become one with him in all ways possible.

The world became very cold very fast, and Bilbo shuddered.

He could not focus on Kili and Tauriel’s words for the rest of the conversation, but he caught their adoring tones, and felt somehow both worse and better for it. Eventually, Tauriel began to move anew, and Bilbo staggered to his feet, intent on following further.

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

His head was full of thoughts he couldn’t quite think clearly, however, and so he did not realize when Tauriel led him onto a balcony and then blocked the door. There was the sound of a blade being drawn, and when Bilbo focused once again, he found Tauriel ready to fight.

“Alright, you nasty little leech,” she said, and though her voice was calm, it bore the silent anger of elves, “show yourself.”

If Bilbo had not been cold before, he would have been, then. Hurriedly, he cast a glance about. The walls were unscalable, even with his hardened nails. Tauriel was blocking the doorway entirely, and he dared not risk diving between her feet. Maybe over the balcony and unto the ground? The gaps in the railing were large enough to let him pass…

He glanced between them and swallowed thickly. No, he’d quite prefer to live. Could he transform and fly away? No, that was madness – the Ring likely would not let him keep the invisibility if he changed.

Deciding to do absolutely nothing, Bilbo held his breath and stood stock still.

“Oh, come on,” said Tauriel. Her gaze was flickering – she was on guard. “I know you’re there. I’ve heard your footsteps and seen your shadow. Who goes there?”

Bilbo had _sworn_ he’d been careful! Still, he did not move.

In an instant, Tauriel had sheathed the blade and drawn her bow, instead. “Be that way, then,” she allowed, “but I will have you know my shot is quick, and I can sense you.”

At the threat of death, Bilbo swallowed thickly and squeaked, “I – I’m a hobbit! Of the Shire!”

Tauriel blinked, then lowered her bow. “A hobbit?” she repeated. “What are you doing here? And how come you move in shadows?”

Bilbo’s breath was shallow as he shakily removed the ring. At once, Tauriel was on guard – though she didn’t do more than give him a once-over before she relaxed. “I – I, uhm – ”

Tauriel tilted her head. “You are a recent addition to these halls,” she noted. Her expression darkened. “You came with the dwarves.”

“Listen,” Bilbo pled, “look, you do not understand – we are more than mere – we are not here to cause trouble. Please – please, I beg of you. Hindering our journey is – it would crush every heart in those cells and ruin any scrap of alliances between dwarves and elves that still remains.”

She had not raised any weapon again, but she was still blocking the door. Even so, something about her expression – less so of anger, and more of intensity – told Bilbo she was listening. “And why should I listen to you?”

Bilbo drew a deep breath and hoped he had not been severely mistaken. “Because Kili trusts me.”

It got to her. “He does?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo. “They all do. Please. I do not ask of you to release us, just your ignorance.”

Tauriel fell quiet. She stared at her hands. “I have never been happy here,” she admitted quietly. “I will do as you ask, hobbit, if you answer one question.”

“To the best of my ability, I will.”

And when Tauriel looked at him with weary eyes, it hit him just how _young_ she, too, was. “Does he speak the truth?”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “To be honest, fair lady, I believe he would marry you on the spot, if he could.”

She closed her eyes.

A moment passed.

“I cannot ignore your presence,” she said softly. “But I shall keep it hidden and secret. Do you plan to break them out?”

Deciding to be honest, Bilbo admitted, “yes.”

“Good. Tell me when, and I will help to the best of my ability.” She bit her cheek, then cast a glance over her shoulder. When she turned back, she lowered her voice. “No one dares say it out loud in fear of his Majesty, but – you are marching on the mountain, are you not?”

Bilbo swallowed, then nodded.

Tauriel drew a deep breath and closed her eyes once more. “Where am I needed?”

“What?” Bilbo blurted. Tauriel’s support in their escape had been hoped for, but not expected. This? This was so much more than that.

“Where will I be of most help? With you, in the mountain, or here, in Thranduil’s halls?”

It was tempting to say ‘with us’, for Bilbo liked Tauriel quite the lot, and felt for her the way he supposed he might feel for a grandchild. He thought about it, however. Thorin would not approve, and the other dwarves would not like her presence, either. If she decided to turn heels, she would have much information to tell Thranduil. If the dragon sickness set in, Thorin would likely attempt to kill.

Then again, in Thranduil’s halls… no, she was of no use to them _here._

“Follow us,” Bilbo landed on. “Not with the group – I fear the dwarves would not approve just yet, excepting Kili, of course, and probably Fili, as well – but some path away. I fear we will meet more dangers yet, and Kili will need your presence.”

Tauriel gave him an odd look. “I do believe, young hobbit, that you know more than you let on.”

“If I did,” said Bilbo, “then I would not tell you, lass. I am also far older than you, thank you very much.”

She laughed brightly. “Very well, then. Are you faring well in these halls? Are the prisoners getting enough food?”

Bilbo groaned. “Yavanna, not you, as well! Yes, they are fine. No, they will not starve, even if they seem to think so themselves. I think the only thing I find bothersome is running messenger.”

Tauriel nodded thoughtfully. She was no longer blocking the door, rather leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. “Kili has mentioned something like that, as well. If I could find parchment for them, would you be willing to carry letters? They seem to mourn the loss of their companions.”

Both bright and kind. Yes, she would do very well. “I’m afraid, had I not been here to tell them everyone was doing well, many would have lost their minds days ago. Parchment would be very kind – it has been difficult to find anything to write with or on.”

“Then I will find that, for you and yours. I have no doubt you will find me eventually, as you seem to have done little but shadow me.” Here she gave him a raised eyebrow, undoubtedly wondering why.

Bilbo shrugged. “I wanted to know if you were right for Kili.” When a soft blush rose in her cheeks, he gently continued, “and I think he would not be able to find a better companion.”

“You truly believe he is serious.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, and shrugged a little. “Kili being serious is such a rare thing that when it happens, it is real.”

Tauriel gave a shy smile, something Bilbo had yet to see her do. “Yes,” she muttered, “I have noticed.”

Nodding, Bilbo stepped around her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bottle I need to retrieve before any guards take note of it.”

And with that, he slid the Ring unto his finger and swept into the halls once again – leaving Tauriel to stare in surprise at the spot where he’d disappeared.

*

Though Bilbo was certain of the truth in Kili’s words, he couldn’t help but double check with the lad. If he’d been wrong, and Tauriel was just a passing fancy, she would not be pleased with either of them.

“So,” said Bilbo, grinning at Kili through the bars, “the elven lass, hm?”

Kili sighed dreamily, leaning against the wall. “Oh, isn’t she wonderful, Bilbo?”

“She is,” Bilbo agreed. And then, with a pointed look, “she is also an elf.”

“I know,” said Kili immediately, straightening. “I know, and it is not a problem, far from it – how could it be?”

That was a good start. Deciding to test the waters further, Bilbo said, “but will your uncle think so, as well?”

“He won’t like it, that’s for sure,” said Kili, “but it would be cruel and wrong of him to deny us – if she ever accepts me, of course.” His expression fell. “I would not force her to do anything she would not want.”

“You are serious about her, then?”

Kili gave him a puzzled look. “Of course I am. Bilbo, she is my One.”

Bilbo returned the puzzled look with another puzzled look. “Your what?”

“My One,” Kili repeated. Then his eyes went wide, and he gasped. “Bilbo – do you not know what a One is?” When Bilbo shook his head, Kili looked pained. “Oh, that explains so much… well, see – for dwarves to love – romantically, that is – is rare. Most dwarves can only love one person in their lives, and it is not up to them to decide, but rather, our Maker.”

Bilbo’s heartbeat slowed to a sickening halt. “Mahal,” he muttered, fingers numbing.

No.

“Right!” Kili beamed. “Not all dwarves have Ones, and not all those who do, find them. So, you see, it is a wonderful day indeed for a dwarf to find their One – and any who tried to keep Ones apart would be looked down upon by others.”

_No._

“I see,” said Bilbo quietly, feeling a bit sick.

So Thorin had never loved him. Even with the sweet words he had whispered, and the grand gestures he had promised.

He had never loved him.

“Excuse me,” said Bilbo, and left in a hurry. Kili called after him, but he shut his eyes and did not listen.

He had never loved him.

And he never would.

*

It was a tired Bilbo who sat by Bofur and Ori’s cell. “How do you fare?” he asked, leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed.

“All things considered, very fine,” said Bofur. “And you, Bilbo? It isn’t too hard on you? Freedom?” It sounded like a joke, but Bilbo knew him well enough to know he meant every word of it.

Bilbo chuckled. “No, Bofur. I’m alright.” He fell quiet. There had been little on his mind but dwarven Ones, the last day. He didn’t have questions, exactly – he knew how secretive dwarves were with their culture – but he was still curious. When he figured out the thing he wanted to know the most, he asked, “Do either of you have a One?”

There was a moment of silence, then Bofur chuckled. “Aye, my Craft is my One.”

“Your Craft?” Bilbo asked, intrigued.

Bofur sat down on the floor on the opposite side of Bilbo, so they were sitting nearly face-to-face. “Yes – I’m a miner, y’see – and it’s not that uncommon, for dwarves to have their Craft as their One.”

“Huh.” Casting a glance at Ori, who was sitting on one of the benches in the cell and fiddling with his sleeves, Bilbo asked, “and you, Ori?”

Ori startled. “U – uhm! Ah…” He kept his gaze averted, and if the lighting had been any better, Bilbo could’ve sworn he was blushing.

“Ori, you vixen!” Bofur exclaimed, a grin on his face. “You do, don’t ye? Who is it? Why don’t we know?”

“I’m not supposed to tell,” Ori whispered. There was a nearly frightened look on his face.

Bilbo was immediately on guard. He straightened, leveling Ori with a frown. “Did they say that to you? Are you being forced?”

“No!” Ori said, waving his hands around frantically. “No, it’s nothing like that! It’s just – ” He winced. “It’s all very new, and… and, well, Dori wouldn’t like it… so we’ve agreed to wait, until Erebor is reclaimed. So we can court properly.” He added, darkly, “and so Dori won’t throw a fit.”

Confused, Bilbo asked, “but I thought it was… wrong, to go against Ones?”

“To deny them?” Ori frowned.

“Yes?”

Bofur hummed. “Yes, somewhat. It’s not a thing often done, but it’s not unheard of, either. People of a higher standing can express distaste with a pairing and slow down the courting process if they want.”

“If they think something is _wrong_ ,” Ori corrected.

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully. “So, if, say, Thorin found a One, would no one be able to ‘express distaste’ at that?”

“Dis could,” Bofur said, and shook his head. “Fili and Kili, as well, though not so much. Relatives are higher standing, no matter what.”

“I see! So, with Ori, both Dori and Nori could express distaste?”

Ori nodded mournfully. “And any Officials involved, such as the Master of any Guilds in question, Heirs, Consorts, Kings or Queens.”

Trying very hard to remember who was what, Bilbo tentatively asked, “so you could be challenged by Dori, Nori, Fili, and Thorin?”

“And Balin,” Ori added, “since he is the Master Scribe and my mentor.”

A realization hit him. “And if – hm, say, Kili found his One?”

“Fili, Dis, and Thorin,” said Ori.

“Right,” Bilbo whispered. “Right, of course.” So Thorin could object. “Who can spread information that someone is someone else’s One?” Bilbo asked. “Is it polite to stay quiet about it?”

“Oh, aye,” said Bofur. “It’s considered highly shameful to speak of another’s One if they haven’t explicitly told you to.”

So Bilbo could not inform Thorin and try to soften the blow that way. No matter – Bilbo was smart enough, when he put his mind to it. He could figure out another way…

*

“Thorin?”

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, smiling from where he sat on the floor. “What do you bring this time?”

“Information,” said Bilbo, and sat beside him. “And the apples you so liked.”

Thorin lit up and eagerly grasped the apple Bilbo procured from his pocket. He ate it in four massive bites and said nothing, having learned by now that Bilbo would not accept his thanks. “What information do you hold?” he asked, wiping his beard with the back of his hand.

Bilbo rubbed his hands together. “An elf has offered us help.”

Good thing he waited on telling Thorin, for he choked on empty air. “ _Elf_?” he grunted, after coughing several times to clear his throat. “We need no help from – ”

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo snapped. “She is the Captain of the Guard and has promised to aid in our escape. Without her, our chances of success are severely lowered!”

“But she is an _elf_ ,” Thorin bemoaned. “They cannot be trusted!”

Bilbo would strangle him one day, just you wait and see, Thorin Stubborn Oakenshield. “Do you trust _me_?” he asked, patting his own chest.

“Of course!”

“Then trust me when I trust her.” When Thorin still looked skeptical, Bilbo huffed and scowled. “Thorin Oakenshield, I am _not_ a foolish fauntling and you _will not_ treat me as such! I have seen just as much of the world as you, and I won’t let you boss me around because you think I’m weak.”

Thorin sat dumfounded, his jaw hanging open. “But – ”

Bilbo leaned forward and hissed, “it is you who is caged and me who is not.”

He shut his mouth with a _snap_. “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

“I know you don’t,” said Bilbo, “but unless you have any better plans…”

Thorin grumbled darkly, but didn’t otherwise comment. “Is there long left?” he asked.

“Two days, I believe,” Bilbo answered, and couldn’t quite keep the relief out of his voice. Oh, how he looked forward to warming himself before a fireplace, or to bask in the sun. He hadn’t been this cold since the Misty Mountains, and it hadn’t been that bad, then, for it hadn’t lasted long at all.

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo cracked an eye open and cast Thorin a glance. “Hm?”

“I said, are you alright?”

That blasted question again. “Oh, yes, quite,” said Bilbo, and stretched. He’d been spending far too much time on these cold, dreadful floors for his liking. “I’m a bit cold, is all – but I will live.”

Even in the dim lighting, Bilbo could clearly see Thorin’s brows knit together in worry. “Cold?” he repeated. “But… come here.”

Bilbo shuffled to his knees and clambered over to where Thorin sat, pressed against the bars. When Thorin reached out to take his hand, he had to stifle a gasp. He was _burning_.

And then the pieces clicked together. Thorin was not warm – he had never been warm.

Bilbo was freezing to death.

Cursing softly, Bilbo threw all caution to the wind and snagged Thorin’s hand, clutching at it with both of his. Thorin’s hand was so big, and Bilbo’s so small, that even with both he could not quite encompass it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped, and shifted, pressing his other hand to Bilbo’s cheek. “You are freezing, _ghivashel_!”

“I’ll be fine,” said Bilbo, and pressed into Thorin’s blazing hand. The one he held, he put against his collarbone, semi-exposed due to his torn vest. “See, uhm, I – we hobbits, we – hm. We store heat,” he tried to explain, looking anywhere but at Thorin’s face, not sure if he would be able to handle his expression. “Fireplace, sunlight, whatever it is…”

It was a lie, of course. Hobbits stored heat as much as any other Free People did, but Bilbo was no hobbit – and he couldn’t tell Thorin that.

“Mahal,” Thorin muttered, and shrugged off his coat, pulling Bilbo closer to him. “And you have traveled these cold halls for weeks, without warmth?”

Bilbo couldn’t find it in him to complain when he was tugged half-way between the bars to rest against Thorin’s warm – warmwarm _warm_ – chest. “Aye,” he said, instead, and closed his eyes and listened to the dull beat of Thorin’s heart.

It was difficult to find a comfortable position. Thorin’s arms were wrapped awkwardly half around Bilbo and half around the bars – not that he seemed to mind – and Bilbo was angled oddly to fit between them. But it was warm.

By Yavanna, it was warm.

He had no clue how long he sat there. Truth to be told, he likely dozed off a little – heartbeats had always comforted him, reminding him much of being curled up in his mother’s nest.

Eventually, Thorin broke the silence. “Bilbo?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask… why do Fili and Kili call you uncle?”

Bilbo shot up. In his haste, he banged his head against one of the bars. Letting out a yelp, he rubbed the spot – pulling away from Thorin’s worried, grasping hands. “I’m fine,” he insisted. Then, “and that would be because they have gotten the ridiculous notion into their minds that you are in love with me.”

A grimace flitted across Thorin’s face, brows furrowed and mouth thin.

“Yes, I know,” said Bilbo, chuckling a bit to cover the sting of pain. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Before Thorin could answer, the sound of keys clanging together and metal doors scraping against stone echoed down the hallway. Wincing, Bilbo jumped to his feet and slipped into the shadows. First then did he put on the Ring.

Thorin stood as well, scowling in the direction the guard was sure to come from. The guard, however, marched right by and faded down the corridor. Once Bilbo deemed it safe, he scurried over to Thorin. “I must go now,” he whispered, “but I will be back.”

Thorin shot out a hand and grasped Bilbo’s collar, yanking him closer – so close that Bilbo was pressed flush against the bars, so close that if he stood on his toes and Thorin bent a little they could brush noses. “If you are ever cold again,” Thorin whispered, gaze flickering down the hall, “I am glad to help.”

His breath fanned hot and near across Bilbo’s face, and Bilbo bit back a squeak. Close. He was far too close. “Alright,” he breathed, gaze flickering between Thorin’s lips and Thorin’s eyes. It really would be easy to kiss him. It would be far too easy.

Thorin brushed his thumb across Bilbo’s cheek, fingers curling loosely around his jaw, and Yavanna, but Bilbo couldn’t help but lean into his hand. “Bilbo…” Thorin muttered.

Would it hurt? Would it truly hurt to indulge? Thorin was clearly not pulling away – maybe dwarves were alright with fooling around outside of Ones?

Before Bilbo could make up his mind, Thorin leaned closer, and Bilbo decided that whatever, _whatever_ , he’d yearned for six thousand years and could solve all of these problems later –

Footsteps approached.

Yanked out of the moment, Bilbo jumped back like a startled bunny, slipping the Ring back on as soon as he could. Breathing hard and heart pounding, he stared at Thorin’s confused and disappointed expression.

When the elf walked through the exit door, Bilbo was right behind.

He did not come back.

*

Two days later they made their escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder I post snippets, thoughts, fanart, and updates on my tumblr! I use the tags 'through the darkness rise' and 'tdr progress' if you're interested in keeping up.
> 
> Now back to working on chapter 13.... it will be the death of me


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear y'all say you liked the little snippets of Bilbo's past - good news! They're gonna be at the start of three chapters more (or so...)
> 
> I love all of your comments!! They're wonderful and a delight to read <3

**Chapter Seven**

_They lost Bungo to the Fell winter._

_It was harrowing. Bilbo’s dad had succumbed to old age, and not snow and ice and wolf fangs._

_Bungo’s death was Bilbo’s fault._

_Bilbo was stronger, quicker, and had more stamina than his dear friends Bungo and Belladonna. When the winter set in, he was usually the one to venture outside to forage or fetch food, or chop or find more wood. However, he could not be out for longer than some hours at a time before he got deathly cold. He spent all his time inside before the fireplace, wrapped in blankets and with a heated waterbottle pressed against his chest._

_That specific day, Bilbo had hurt his foot while out, and had not been able to bring as much wood back as they needed. Bungo had clasped his shoulder, thanked him profusely, and went out in his place to get the rest._

_They found his body four days later, mangled and half-eaten._

_Bilbo sobbed for hours. He apologized to Belladonna time and time again – Bungo should have had fourteen more years to his life – and though she cried as much as him, she refused to hear any of it._

_It was Bilbo who buried him in a nice spot in the garden. He worked himself nearly to death to dig through the snow and into the ground, promising him a proper burial and funeral once the spring returned. When he staggered his way back inside, he fainted halfway through the back door._

_He lost Belladonna to grief and sickness three years later – twenty years before her supposed time._

_He knelt before their graves and wept bitter tears, the apology lodging in his throat and cheating him of air._

_It was his fault. He felt robbed – he felt guilty. He was angry and furious and terrified._

_It was like losing his mother all over again._

*

Bilbo quite felt like a drowned rat. Clinging onto barrels rushing down a river would do that to one, he figured. Yet now he was sitting at the bow of Bard’s boat, and despite the harrowing sight of the fog dancing across the lake, he was happy with his accomplishments.

With Tauriel and another elf’s help – Bilbo thought he looked a bit familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it – they had gotten out in time to escape Azog’s attack, and so Kili had not suffered any damage. On the shores, Tauriel had surfaced from the treeline to help Bilbo help the dwarves out of their respective barrels. Kili had looked to her with awe and hope. Everyone else were just confused and wary.

She had disappeared back into the bushes the moment the dwarves were out and Bilbo informed her of their intended destination. First then did Bilbo admit to the Company that she’d been an inside source of help. Many had been disgruntled about that, but it wasn’t like they could do much about it, and so they had for the most part moved on.

Bilbo was dreading the stay in Lake Town. He recalled being snuck in through a toilet, and then later his rather bothersome cold, and the emotional ride the whole thing was. Still, he was dreading what would come _later_ much more.

“We’re short ten coin,” Balin muttered behind him.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Gloin,” he called over his shoulder, “you have a pouch with two gold and thirteen silver in your left pocket. Pay up.”

Gloin grumbled and muttered darkly about ‘nasty burglars’ and ‘mind-reading hobbits’, but there was the clinking of coin, and Bilbo smirked to himself. Only Ori and Bofur would be able to guess how he truly knew – and they would never say.

*

Once they’d gotten past the tollgates, Bilbo stood, put a hand on Bard’s – it was the furthest he could reach – and said, “thank you very much for the help, Bard Bowman, but we will be on our way now.” He handed over the last of his own money – a single golden coin he had kept on him this whole way for this exact purpose.

A confused “Bilbo?” came from Balin, who stood behind him and heard it. “That was not the plan?”

Bilbo turned and gave Balin a warm smile. “Trust me, Balin, we are better off like this.” And so he sought out Thorin on the barge, crossed the small deck, and muttered, “I suggest we make way for the Master’s halls – make a declaration before the people, and they will rejoice.”

Thorin cast an uncertain glance around the shabby town. “Are you certain?”

“It is the best alternative,” Bilbo replied, his tone as steady as he could keep it.

“Very well, then,” said Thorin. “For the Master’s halls we make.”

Bard’s suspicious look burned into the back of Bilbo’s neck, but he chose to ignore him as well as he could.

*

There was no need for neither Bilbo nor Thorin to make fancy speeches this time around. Thorin barely had time to announce himself – “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror – King Under the Mountain!” – before the cheer rose. And then things happened too fast for Bilbo to keep up, and suddenly there was a feast, and Thorin – along with Fili, Kili, and Bilbo – were put at the high end of the table.

Bilbo wished he could enjoy it properly, but the cold was settling in, and that always muddled his brain. Still, he remained with the rest of the Company and smiled at their jokes and laughed at their songs, glad to find that they found happiness even with the mountain looming so close.

Well. Then again, the happiness was maybe _because_ of and not _despite_ of.

Eventually, the party died down and they were escorted to a place for rest – a rather large house close to the town centre. There were seven bedrooms and a common area with a fireplace, several couches and tables, and a kitchen space.

The dwarves went around muttering in appreciation at the soft beds and big rooms. Bilbo settled in on one of the couches, watching them hustle and bustle with a small smile. Despite their appreciation of the big rooms, it did not take long before they’d shuffled several mattresses into the common room.

Traveling together would do that to you, he supposed – they’d done the same in Rivendell – but there was likely a healthy dose of wariness of men mixed into it.

Bilbo gave a helpless little laugh as Bofur threw a pillow in Dwalin’s face, who laughed uproariously even as Dwalin tackled him to the floor.

“Bilbo!” called Bofur, from beneath Dwalin’s elbow. “Where’ll you sleep, laddie?”

It was incredibly tempting to stay with the others on the various mattresses scattered throughout the room, but Bilbo sniffled with a small smile and said, “I’m coming down with a cold, I’m afraid, so I’d rather not make you sick, as well.”

At once, he had the attention of nearly everyone. “A cold?” said Kili, anxious. “Are you going to die?”

Oin scoffed loudly and cuffed him over the head. “You’re as stupid as the worst of the tree-shaggers!” He made his way over to Bilbo and took a good look at his face, tilting his chin this way and that. “No wounds?” Oin asked.

“No wounds,” Bilbo affirmed.

Huffing, Oin pressed his ear trumpet against Bilbo’s back, his hand flat against his chest. “Breathe,” he commanded.

Bilbo drew a deep breath. He tried not to think too hard about the twelve pairs of eyes watching.

“Aye,” Oin said, patting his shoulder. Bilbo nearly buckled beneath it. “Just a cold, lad. With some rest and broth you’ll be fine.” And then, with a neat little grin, “but we dwarves don’t get colds like those, so ye needn’t worry.”

“That’s a relief,” Bilbo said. “Then I do suppose I’ll sleep here, with you.”

Fili and Kili cheered, and Kili, ever the youngest of the two, rushed for him and wrapped him up in a hug. It didn’t take long before he pulled back with a frown, though. “Uncle Bilbo!” he blurted, shocked and confused. “You’re freezing!”

That got Thorin’s attention. “Bilbo!” he chastised. “You should’ve told someone.”

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo muttered, slightly uncomfortable with the attention. “Just a bit cold…”

“Dwalin!” Thorin barked, pressing his palm to Bilbo’s forehead. “Get the fire going. Everyone else, find blankets.”

They became a flurry of activity, and it wasn’t long before Bilbo was packed into several blankets and tucked in-between Fili on one side and Kili on the other, the fireplace roaring to life before them. “There,” muttered Thorin, and ruffled both Kili and Fili’s hair. “Is that better?”

Bilbo didn’t have the heart to tell him that the blankets wouldn’t help one bit, so he only offered a nod and smile.

The room collectively let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” said Balin, who was balancing precariously on one of the mattresses. “We wouldn’t want to lose you now, lad.”

“I should hope not,” Bilbo snarked back. “Who would retrieve the Arkenstone then?”

They laughed, but Bilbo’s heart sunk at the self-imposed reminder. The mountain… the end of the journey. Of course they all had hope, but Bilbo found it impossible to do so himself.

How could he hope, when he knew that at the end of the road lay a furious dragon, gold sickness, starvation, and war?

*

It took Bilbo three days to recover, which was vastly better than last time (which took two weeks). He spent his time on the couch or dozing off, eating food the Company brought him and mending various clothes. The others tried to tell him off, but Bilbo refused to listen, knowing they would need proper and warm clothes in the mountain.

Despite the feasts held nearly daily Bilbo was never alone. The dwarves varied who spent time with him, and nobody seemed bothered by it. Bilbo found Bifur the most interesting to have with him, for he taught him some simple Iglishmek and dwarven knitting patterns, and they had some halted conversations cross-legged before the roaring fire.

At night, they slept comfortably. The third night Bilbo sat up late, his sowing needle so warm in his hands it nearly burned, with how close he sat to the flames. Behind him, on the far side of the couch, lay the dwarves in sleep. Their snoring, which had once been the most bothersome sound in the world, was now lulling him into a dull calm.

Thorin sat next to him in the couch. It dipped beneath his weight. “How are you?” he asked softly. “Well enough to travel?”

Bilbo peeked at him out of the corner of his eye. The firelight flickered and danced across his skin, and the dragon in Bilbo – the one that loved warmth and all things golden – purred.

“It’s not that I wish to stress you,” Thorin said, a note of panic to his voice, “I am merely curious.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, putting down his needle to give Thorin a gentle look. “You’re alright. And yes, I am. When were you thinking?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Thorin said, and Bilbo knew him well enough to hear the relief on his voice. “There is to be another feast tomorrow, and I fear it will last too long for us to leave at its conclusion.”

Bilbo nodded. “Very good. I would like to attend that feast, then.” Thorin gave him a puzzled look. “Yes, well – I’ve yet to see the hospitality of the folk of Lake Town, and as a _hobbit_ – ” Here he touched a hand to his chest, looking quite regal; Thorin snorted. “ – it is my born duty to make sure hosts and hostesses all across the land are doing the best they can.”

“Is that a vow?” Thorin grinned.

“It is,” Bilbo admitted, “though not one I have made, or ever will make. It’s part of the Thain’s Vow.”

“The Thain?”

Bilbo nodded, pleased to be able to talk of his homeland. “Yes – that would be the leader of the hobbits. I suppose he has the role of a King, but we never discuss or think of him that way… we are quite calm in nature.” He shrugged a little at Thorin’s baffled expression. “Outside of war times, which are, hah, always, his role is mostly just to settle disputes between us.”

“I see,” said Thorin. “And why would you never make such an oath?”

“Me as Thain?” Bilbo asked, turning wide eyes to Thorin. “Are you mad? It’s linear, Thorin, and I’m not in line.” He tapped his chin. “Though, I am half Took, so I could challenge the current Thain or his heir, and I might win. But it is not something I would want to do.”

“Not one for being in power, hm?”

Bilbo shrugged. “I’m not a leader. Sometimes people can do very stupid things and I wish for weight behind my words so they would listen – thanks for helping with the barrels, by the way – but I am not and will never be a leader.”

Thorin smiled. “A diplomat, then. Like Balin.”

“Sure,” Bilbo agreed, and returned the smile. “Like Balin.”

*

The feast was about as magnificent as the one Bilbo could recall they had the last time around. This time he could appreciate it properly, though, and wolfed down much of the food, laughing as uproariously as many of the dwarves at their jokes.

He spotted Ori through the crowd, though, and the poor dwarf didn’t seem to be having as much fun as the others. Bilbo, thinking of his talk with Thorin last night – _diplomat_ , he could bear that title with pride – crossed the room to sit by him, asking quietly, “what’s the matter, Ori?”

Ori didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m worried,” he admitted. “About Smaug.”

“It’ll be alright,” Bilbo said instantly. “If we’re careful, it’ll be alright.”

“I’m worried about you, too,” Ori whispered, squirming like a fauntling caught in the pantry.

Bilbo tensed. He understood Ori’s worry – he had been worried, himself, all the way back at the troll hoard, when he’d sensed the gold – but by now he had so much else to worry about that the gold of Erebor didn’t bother him at all. “I understand,” he said, “and Ori… I can sense all the gold and treasure in that mountain as well as any other d… any other of my kind. But I have cast off the Darkness, as have every other that I know. I will not be lured, and neither will any other.”

Ori had been looking weirdly at him through the whole talk, but now he startled, eyes going wide. “No!” he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly, going by the eyes that flickered to them. Whispering, he continued, “no, Bilbo, I don’t mean that! I’m worried about you facing Smaug!” He grasped Bilbo’s sleeve, watching intensively. “Will you be okay?”

Oh, sweet Ori. “Yes,” Bilbo said, giving him the kindest smile he could muster. “Yes, Ori. I will.” He was about to continue his reassuring when movement in the window behind Ori caught his attention. There was a flash of red and green, and before Ori could compose a response, Bilbo said, “Excuse me.”

He slipped out through the doors and found Tauriel leaning against the wall outside. She smiled at him when he stepped into the light.

“Lovely evening,” Bilbo said.

“I never caught your name,” said Tauriel.

Bilbo flushed. True – he had never gotten around to that. “Bilbo Baggins,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist, “of the Shire.” Glancing over his shoulder to make sure everyone was still inside and no-one listening, he relied, “we leave for Erebor tomorrow. I think it would be unwise to follow – we’re being hunted by orcs, and they cannot be far away.”

Tauriel frowned and pushed away from the wall, straightening into a posture of seriousness. “More the reason to follow, then.”

“By the time they reach the town, we will already be in Erebor. Stay here and protect the townsfolk – in particular, Bard the Bowman.” He couldn’t help the dark look overtaking him then. “I fear we might need his bow once more before this is all over.”

“The dragon,” Tauriel muttered. “You fear it will wake.”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Then I will stay. Is Kili…?”

“He’s inside.” Bilbo gave her a knowing look. “If you go to the belltower, I can tell him to meet you there.”

“Thank you,” she said, and didn’t spare a moment before disappearing into the dark of night.

Bilbo went to inform Kili of the recent development and smiled to himself when he lit up and all but sprinted out the door. Bilbo himself found the air inside to be just a bit too heavy for him, and so he, too, ventured back outside to sit on the dock and look at the stars.

It did not take long before Thorin joined him. “I thought you said you wished to participate in the feast?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, and I did,” said Bilbo courtly. “And it was rather fine, thank you. But I figured I could take this moment to drink in the last I could of calm and quiet.”

“A noble goal. Are you not looking forward, then, to Erebor?”

“Thorin.” Bilbo gave him a flat look. “There is a dragon in that mountain. And yes, maybe it is dead. But if it is not, chances are _we’ll_ die. If we do not die, and fell the beast, _some_ might still die. And if we do not fell the beast, it will take to Lake Town.” He gestured at the area around them. “I do not hope it comes to that, but if it does… this might be the last I see of this town.”

Thorin shook his head. “Why would Smaug come here? He has no business with the men.”

“Think about it,” Bilbo said. “If you had slept for sixty years and then woken, would you not be hungry?”

Even through the dim light, Bilbo could tell Thorin paled. “Oh,” he said softly. “I had not thought of that.”

Bilbo snorted. “Pardon my harsh words, Your Majesty, but you do not seem to think much at all.” Before Thorin could do much more than give an amused grunt, Bilbo continued, “but come, now, let’s talk of lighter things. Fili and Kili – I saw you three, during the feast. You are close.”

“Of course,” said Thorin, and nodded. “They are my sister-sons.”

Humming, Bilbo leaned back on his hands, tilting his head to look up at the stars. “Have you ever thought of having bairns of your own?”

Bilbo had always wanted. Things had never worked out, though – in his first life, he had not found anyone to settle with. And in this he’d had far too many secrets, and far too much to think about. There had been no time, and no reason.

But Bilbo had still always wanted.

“Oh, aye,” said Thorin warmly, “many times.” Then his tone turned sad. “But I am not a lone-carver, I’m afraid.”

“A lone-carver?” Bilbo repeated, curious.

Thorin hummed. “Do you remember the Mannish prophecy?”

As though Bilbo could forget. “The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone? Aye.”

“It is not a metaphor,” Thorin said with a smile. “Dwarves are carved out of stone. Usually, you need at least two parents for it – the power, will, and spirit to breathe life into a being is rarely held within a single person. Truly, I’ve only ever known one.”

“Who?” asked Bilbo, curious.

“Dis.”

It took Bilbo a moment to realize why that sounded familiar. “That… would be your sister, yes?”

“Aye.” Thorin leaned into his shoulder briefly. Bilbo would’ve called it a light push, but it lingered too long for that. “She was so furious after… after everything, she stormed into the newly carven halls of Ered Luin and didn’t return until much later, carrying two blocks of stone.”

“Two? I thought they were brothers, not twins.”

“Kili took longer than Fili,” Thorin said, as though that explained everything. “He was hard to get right, Dis said. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and her face bursting red with sweat, and yet she worked on.” He shook his head, fondness and awe both alight in his expression. “The fierceness of a parent combined with the stubbornness of Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror?”

“Ah, I see. So she is like you, then,” said Bilbo, and laughed when Thorin grumbled.

They quieted, and Bilbo leaned a bit into him, if only because he could, and because the stars were bright.

“And you?” Thorin asked. “Have you ever wanted bairns?”

“Oh, yes, always,” said Bilbo, smiling up at the sky as his head rested on Thorin’s shoulder. “We call them fauntlings… they’re any hobbit’s joy and pride. Though I never found the right person to do it with,” he said sadly. “There are no single hobbit parents, I’m afraid.”

“Do you conceive like Men?” Thorin sounded genuinely curious – less like a scholar and more like a fauntling having found a slimy frog.

“Heavens, no! We plant seedlings.” When Thorin made another curious sound, Bilbo elaborated. “A seed of any kind… flower, weed, tree. A lock of hair is required by each or all the parents, and energy, of any form.” Blushing a bit, he continued on. “Sharing a bed is common, but not necessary. One can also dance or sing or craft, cook food or have a party.”

“Fascinating,” Thorin muttered. “And you were born this way?”

Bilbo choked on his tongue and drew away. He didn’t hesitate for more than a second, though. “Yes, of course,” he said, falling back on knowledge of his first life. “I myself sprouted from a sunflower seed, hence my colouring. You, then, must’ve been carved?”

Thorin nodded, having turned to face Bilbo in full. There was no moonlight, as it was hidden behind some clouds, but Bilbo could see his expression nonetheless – open, raw. Honest. “I was. My mother and father found me in a streak of augite.”

“Ah,” said Bilbo, and tried not to think too hard about why Thorin would be looking at him with an expression like that. “Hence… your colouring, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Thorin. He’d leaned closer while Bilbo was looking the other way, and his eyes were intense; warmth radiating off him. “What does a sunflower mean? In the language of flowers?”

“Many things – loyalty. Strength.” Bilbo swallowed, wet his lips – he glanced down at Thorin’s, then up at his eyes. His heart hammered. Was he going to…? “Adoration.”

“How fitting,” said Thorin, and leaned forward and kissed him.

Bilbo couldn’t say he was surprised.

It was a gentle thing, the kiss – warm, pliable – lingering, but not demanding.

Bilbo wanted more. _Needed_ more. More of that gentleness, more beyond that gentleness, he wanted, wanted every day, every day wanted.

 _Dragons never mean good, of course they are cruel_ and _dwarves can only love one person in their lives_.

Bilbo drew back, fingers grasping at Thorin’s shirt. He could not for the life of him find an ounce of anger for Thorin playing with him like this, for he was sure there were some true emotions behind it, and not cruelty – but it was not, and could never be, _enough_ for Bilbo. And then, if Thorin found his One, what then?

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo whispered, and his voice shattered and broke. He didn’t look at Thorin. “But I cannot – I can’t do this, Thorin, not to you. This thing, it – it won’t last, and I – I’ll just hurt you.” He climbed to his feet, stubbornly refusing to use Thorin’s shoulder as support. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

And without waiting for Thorin’s response, Bilbo fled.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit later than I'd like it to be, but I'm home from vacation now, and things are hopefully back on track! 
> 
> For those of you who don't follow my tumblr: I've finished chapter fourteen and am currently at a neat 60k, solidly placing this story as my longest coherent work. Hooray!

**Chapter Eight**

_It was dark and damp, but it mattered none to the Whippers. Dragons of all ages were forced out of their dens, the sharp cries of the Whippers’ horrible language speaking of pain and war. War, war, and more war._

_They were being summoned._

_Mother cradled them close, though they were strictly speaking too old for it, now. Still, Bilbo trembled, pressed in-between her feathers and his siblings’ scales. There was determination in mother’s voice when she spoke. “I will give you all the time I can. You must fly – all of you. Fly, and fly, and never come back.”_

_“What about you?” asked Bilbo._

_“Dáynith,” mother said softly, “you, of all, I hope will not look back. Flee.”_

_And she didn’t explain any further, only groomed them one last time and went out into the open._

_Once the roaring and screaming began, Bilbo fled with his siblings._

_Not a single of the other dragons or Whippers noticed little Dáynith amongst his bigger nestmates._

_It saved his life that night._

_It would save him again many more._

*

The desolation of Smaug was as heartbreaking as last time. “There used to be lush forests here,” Balin told him.

Bilbo nodded. “And bushes and berries and fruits,” he sighed. “I can feel it, Balin – an echo of what was.” When Balin shot him a surprised look, Bilbo shrugged. “Dwarves are of the stone. Hobbits are of the earth. We can sense these things.” Bilbo bent, scraping together a handful of dirt. He toyed with it a bit, then shook his head. “This land is poisoned. It’ll take years – decades, probably – to heal, unless you get outside help.”

Balin smiled sadly. “And who would help a fallen Kingdom of the east.”

To that, Bilbo had no answer.

*

They found the secret entrance rather quickly, compared to the first time – helped on by Bilbo, naturally. As such, they set up camp up on the small ledge. Bombur and Bilbo began to work on dinner as the rest of them sorted through their bags and counted their things before the final moments.

Bilbo was trying to distract himself with the food, not wanting to think about what lay waiting for him beyond the mountain wall. Bombur understood and let him do most of the work, though he kept throwing worried glances his way.

Nearly _everyone_ were throwing worried glances his way.

Bilbo stubbornly ignored them all.

When the sun began to set, they sat in silence, holding their breath. Bilbo was clutching at the Ring in one hand and Gandalf’s necklace in the other. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin gripping the key rigidly.

“Any moment now,” Nori muttered. “Any moment…”

The thrush began to knock, and there was a rush of excited inhales.

Moonlight bled from the sky.

“There,” Bilbo whispered, pointing. Thorin rushed forward and jammed the key into the crack the moonlight relieved – he turned his wrist.

An audible click resounded.

There was a collective, relieved, “ _yes_ ,” as the door swung open.

Rarely had Bilbo been able to describe darkness as ‘blinding’ – but this was. This well, and truly, was.

And he was about to march straight into it.

Bilbo clambered to his feet. “Alright. That’s it, then,” he said, and swallowed. And so he made his way into the Lonely Mountain, the complaints of the dwarves echoing between the stone walls… and falling on deaf ears.

*

As Bilbo crept down the dark and empty halls of Erebor, he toyed with Gandalf’s necklace. Sting remained in his belt; there was no use for it. Not here. Truth to be told, Bilbo was not going into this treasure hoard to find the Arkenstone. If Smaug did not wake and die to Bard, Bilbo feared what would happen. _He_ would not be able to fell him, and neither would the Company of thirteen dwarves.

No. Bilbo knew he could not take Smaug in a fight. He had fought other dragons before, of course, though most were roughly his size, and when they were much bigger, he had been part of a group. Though he had won many of the battles, he was no fighter, and he would likely never be. Bard would have to be the one to fell Smaug – Bard, or none.

He followed the lure of the gold to the treasure chamber. Despite having sensed its greatness – despite remembering the vastness – he found himself choking on air as he gazed upon the heaps and piles of unsorted, haphazard gold.

It reeked of dragon, both in smell and sight.

And Bilbo could sense the massive cavern where Smaug’s buried body was.

Gulping down a deep breath, Bilbo steeled himself and called, “excuse me!” as loudly as he could.

If he could sense Smaug, then Smaug could sense him. And it was not long before the gold coins began rolling, the heaps melting aside to leave space for the ginormous fire-drake rising from the sea.

And Bilbo realized two things at once. First of all, his memories had been lying to him – Smaug was bigger than he recalled. Second of all, the markings and formations of the scales were wrong.

Smaug was a fire-drake from the North. In and of themselves, they were not that big dragons, all things considered.

But the females of their kind were huge.

“Oh,” Bilbo squeaked.

“What,” said Smaug, her maw bearing a massive snarl, “is the meaning of this?” She coiled closer to him, sniffing the air. “I know you,” she hissed, pulling back with an outraged glare. “Why do you bear such a weak skin? Why do you reek of foul dwarves? And _why_ are you _here_ , peace-breaker?”

Bilbo blinked, all the courage draining out of him. “You know me?” he breathed.

Smaug scoffed, turning aside: baring her back. It was an insult, painting him as unimportant and weak. He bristled at it, despite the truth behind the gesture. “Every dragon of the Third Age knows of you, _Dáynith_. You are a cautionary tale… you and your soft claws and weak teeth.” She gave him a mocking look. “And now… you are _worse_.”

The time had come. Bilbo raised trembling hands to his neck, hooking his fingers around Gandalf’s chain and lifting it above his head.

The instant the metal left his body, he changed.

He was about as small in comparison to Smaug as he had expected – roughly a third of her size, he would assume at a few calculated glances. The abrupt changing of his size had made the hoard unstable, and now, when he shifted his weight, mountains of gold shifted with him.

In the chaos, the piercing light of the Arkenstone was revealed, half-way buried beneath a cup and necklace, some way off where Bilbo was precariously perched.

Bilbo looked at the stone, then at Smaug.

“Do not _dare_ ,” Smaug hissed.

Later, Bilbo would say it was planned. He would nod wisely and say he found it the best solution.

The truth was that he panicked.

He dove, locked his jaw around stone and gold both, and gulped it all down in one fell swoop.

There was silence for a moment.

 _What on Earth have I done_ , thought Bilbo.

Smaug shrieked and lunged for him, and it was solely Bilbo’s size that let him dodge the attack. He scrambled out of the way and around a pillar, hastily glancing around for a way out that would not involve endangering his dwarves. While he was planning on battling Smaug briefly, it was the worst possible option to do it here – she would bring the roof down upon them if angered, and there were only so many pillars left in the room.

He locked onto escape and bolted.

A furious Smaug raced after him, her shriek becoming a roar – anger, fury, and promise of revenge. Fire licked at Bilbo’s back, and the smell of burning feathers stung in his nose.

He burst out into the open night, heaving one huge breath of relief before Smaug caught up and tackled him. She fought with rage, and it shrouded her rational thinking. It was the only advantage Bilbo had.

Or – not the only. Mist coiled and curled within him and he unleashed it, spewing it into the air around them, hoping to block Smaug’s sight. Judging by her splitting hiss, it worked. While she flexed her wings and tried to get out of the growing cloud, Bilbo latched onto her back with one arm – the other clawing at whatever he could reach on her torso. It would be covered in gems and gold, he recalled – and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to knock some of it loose.

His claws scrabbled helplessly against the jewelry, however, and he soon gave up, instead making for Smaug’s face. Again, he unleashed the mist, this time directly in her eyes. She flailed blindly about, and if it weren’t for the fact that her arms were needed for flying, she would’ve taken Bilbo out.

Bilbo drove a claw into her eye.

Again, she shrieked, throwing her head from side to side so violently that Bilbo was flung off. Desperate not to lose his advantage, he went for the scaled side of her chest. There the missing scale would be, giving almost direct way to her heart. Bard had managed to find it the first time – but Bilbo was not willing to take the chance he would again.

He managed to claw loose four other scales before Smaug grabbed hold of him, her claws digging into the soft flesh beneath his wings, and flung him aside. Breathing hard, Bilbo tried to catch himself – but his wings were hurt and he couldn’t use them properly, and so he crashed to the ground with a shriek.

Smaug landed heavily before him, lips drawn back in a snarl – liquid gushing from one eye, and the other a furious slit. In draconic, she growled, “any last words, _Dáynith_?”

Bilbo thought hard and fast. “What – whatever you do,” he gasped out, “don’t – don’t do anything to Lake Town – please, they are – they’re _good people_.”

The fire that had been building in Smaug’s chest died. “Are they, now?” she purred. When Bilbo nodded, the snarl became a grin. “Good. Then you can watch them _die._ ” She wrenched Bilbo’s head around to face the town, and then in a flurry of wind, she was gone.

Bilbo let out a stuttered sigh of relief.

Slowly – he couldn’t quite believe it – he rolled round onto his stomach. He’d crashed onto the rocky beach of the Lake, on the other side of Dale. Good – that would give him time and space to sneak back into Erebor unseen.

He tried his wings, but flying brought far too much pain, and so he began to walk back.

Right before he came back to the entrance to the mountain, he cast a glance over his shoulder.

Lake Town burned.

In the distance, Smaug’s final shriek of pain came – and then a vast _crash_ , booming and hazy.

“Good riddance,” mumbled Bilbo, and stumbled inside.

Once he’d stuck his snout inside the treasure chamber and smelled around for any of the Company – and finding none – he transformed back.

The pain was incredible. Already he could tell the wounds from Smaug’s attack had followed into this form – his sides were drenched in blood and he ached, ached, ached. Gasping and grunting, Bilbo fumbled for the vial Gandalf had granted him before Mirkwood – bloodied and scraped fingers sliding against the glass and leaving red-and-black fingerprints.

He struggled with the cap for a moment, biting hard on lips and tongue and cheek to keep from sobbing, and then _off_ it went, and Bilbo drank it all without hesitation.

Relief was immediate, and he fell back onto some gold with a gasp. He was still in pain, though nothing as all-consuming as the transformation caused.

Allowing himself only a few moments of peace, Bilbo struggled to sit up.

He had to find the others.

As it was, the others found him. Bilbo didn’t get much farther than half-way across the chamber before someone screamed his name.

“Nori,” Bilbo breathed, and his vision was blurring a bit at the edges, but he could still recognize the dwarves stumbling in gold to get to him. “Dori… Bombur?”

Dori reached him first. “Oy, laddie, thank Mahal you’re alright, we – you’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo mumbled, with two gaping wounds down his side. “Just a little scratch.”

Nori grabbed his shoulder. “That ain’t ‘nothing, just a scratch’,” he said. “Which of the foul beasts did this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bombur interrupted. “Give ‘im here, I’ll carry him back.”

Bilbo made a weak protest but was soon gently lifted into Bombur’s arms. “You’re getting blood all over you,” Bilbo said.

“Aye, ain’t the first time, either,” said Bombur. “Come on, then. To safety we go.”

Dori went to call off the others, who’d apparently also been looking for Bilbo. Only Bifur had remained at camp to keep watch for the dragon – and so it was he who excitedly shared the news of Smaug’s death. His excitement was stilled the moment he saw Bilbo, though.

Everyone were worried. Oin had him stripped in moments, inspecting and cleaning the long scrape on either side. “Odd shape to these,” he muttered to himself. To Bilbo, he said, “you’ve been very lucky, lad. Somehow it’s avoided all yer organs and bones.”

The group let out a relieved breath. Bilbo wasn’t surprised – Smaug hadn’t been near anything important in dragon form, so why would she be in hobbit form? – though he said nothing of it. “How long’ll it take to heal?”

Oin gave a hapless little shrug. “You’ve healed well and quick before, I don’t see why it would be different now. You’ll have to say yourself, I’m afraid.”

Bilbo carefully prodded the wounds. They’d been simple enough for Dáynith – maybe a week, at most two – but hobbits were far more vulnerable. “Maybe three weeks? A month?”

Oin looked skeptical, but nodded. “Right, then. Someone fetch me bandages.”

Kili was sent to find the old healing wing, where Thorin promised there would still be some medicine and tools they could use. When he’d gone, Thorin turned to Bilbo. “I am glad you are alright,” he said. “What did you see? Anything of the Arkenstone – or the other dragon?”

The Arkenstone.

Bilbo had swallowed the Arkenstone.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that information? Was it in him now? Would it dissolve? Was it going to hurt him? Good Yavanna, he’d _swallowed the Arkenstone_.

Numbly, he shook his head.

“Oh, lay off him, will you?” said Bofur, pushing past Thorin to kneel by Bilbo’s bedroll. “He faced Smaug and came out alive on the other side! He’s sure to be traumatized.”

Nobody asked more of the Arkenstone, though they had many questions and thoughts of the other dragon. Some were reasonable – a challenger or friend of some sort – while others were rather foolish – a spawn, or a sibling, or something of the like.

Ori berated them for it. “That was clearly not a fire-drake,” he said. “It was far too small, and had the wrong colours. Also, it was decorated with feathers. No fire-drake has that.”

There was some grumbled acceptance to that.

“Besides,” Bilbo shot in, “why would Smaug fight someone she’s related to? Dragons are far too protective of their own for that.”

Silence.

Ori squeaked, “Smaug’s a _girl??_ ”

“Not anymore, she’s not,” said Gloin, amused. “Dead at the bottom of the lake! What does the gender matter?”

More grumbled acceptance.

Kili returned with armloads of bandages. “What did I miss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for all the kind comments!!! They're the best part of posting this story! Hadn't it been for you, I would not have kept writing.


	10. Chapter Nine

_After his escape, Bilbo flew for days. He flew, and flew, and flew, until he was certain he would not be caught by any Whippers or other dragons or the memory of the screams._

_That first night he rested beneath a great oak, curled up around it, and he glared at it with resentment and bitterness both. Nothing would let him forget the dwarf he had pledged his heart to – Thorin son of Thrain, Oakenshield and king._

_When Bilbo woke the next morning, he made for the North. He would find a cave to settle in in a society of dragons, outcast or escaped like him, and he would sleep for a millennium before he woke._

*

Bilbo slept a lot the upcoming days. Like in Lake Town, there was always someone with him, caring for his wounds, taking watch, or keeping him company. The others were in the treasure chamber, looking for the Arkenstone and whatever other treasures they might salvage. No matter what Bilbo said, they would not listen. “A sickness lies upon that gold,” he said. “You are all falling victim to it!”

That earned him nothing but laughs and grumbles, and Bilbo resigned himself to having to seek out Gandalf as soon as he was healed enough to clamber down the battlement. His job was not over, even if the mountain reclaimed.

It hurt to see the dwarves succumb to the dragon sickness – Thorin most of all. His easy smile and warm eyes hardened and faded into brooding and darkness. It was as though a shadow lay over him, and had Bilbo not seen it happen himself, he would’ve accused him of being an impostor.

Thorin, Fili and Kili had it worst, followed immediately by Nori and Dori. “Durin’s line,” Balin explained to Bilbo in solemn tones. “They’ve always suffered more from… from this.” Out of all the dwarves, Balin and Bofur were the least affected. It was hard to rank them, though – they had bad and good days, every single one of them.

Except for Thorin. He was on a constant slope of worsening, every day a little darker than the last. Bilbo started seeing less and less of him around the campsite. Eventually, his bedroll disappeared entirely.

The elves and men had arrived, but Bilbo could barely focus on them when he knew it would come to war no matter what. Besieged, they were, with barely any food and less water. Bilbo held onto hope that Gandalf would show up soon.

It was Ori who was with him when he began walking about. It’d only been a week, but the wounds were shallow and closed up enough for Bilbo to stagger to his feet and stumble about. Ori cheered him on, walking beside him with the offer of an elbow or shoulder should he need.

After Bilbo’s little victory, they sat beside the crackling fire and talked. “It was you, right?” Ori asked. “The other dragon.”

“Yes.” Bilbo picked at his sleeves. “I knew I couldn’t win… and I knew she’d go for Lake Town. I hoped to make her defeat as easy as possible.”

Ori, now looking like a curious fauntling, asked, “what did you do?”

“Punctured an eye and clawed loose four scales, I believe.” He sighed a little. “It was all I could do.”

“It was enough,” said Ori with certainty. “How did you get the wounds?”

“She drove a claw in beneath each of my wings to throw me off.”

Ori shook his head. “I can’t believe you fought her.”

Bofur stepped into the campsite, face ashen. “I can,” he said. “But – there is something else, something much more important. I came as soon as I could – Bilbo, can you walk?”

“Well enough,” said Bilbo, and frowned. “Ori, help me up.”

They hastened for the treasure chamber. Bilbo dared not ask what was wrong – he was afraid of the answer. Bofur snuck around some of the other dwarves, pulling Ori and Bilbo along one of the walls. They struggled at a slow pace, for Bilbo’s wounds complained with every wobbly step, but with Ori on one side as support and the wall on the other, things went alright.

“Here,” whispered Bofur, and pointed into an alcove. “Is it what I think, Bilbo?”

Inside the alcove was a nest surrounded by gold. The nest was made of dry grass and clothes, some blankets and a tapestry. It’d been made with care, and was clearly not meant for Smaug – there was space for only two men to lie in it at a time.

In it sat an egg.

Bilbo drew a sharp breath. “Oh, sweet Yavanna.”

It was a fire-drake egg, a bit taller than Bilbo and about triple his width. Fiercely red, it was, coloured with splotches of gold and yellow and brown.

“Bilbo?” Bofur asked.

“Aye, that’s an egg,” said Bilbo quietly. He crept forward, crawling into the nest and towards the egg. Cautiously, he laid a palm flat against the shell. It was rough and warm, though Smaug had been dead for days.

Bilbo closed his eyes.

Sorrow tore through him.

Of course Smaug had been protective.

He leaned in and rested his forehead against the egg. There was life within; he could smell it, sense it, feel it.

“What do we do?” Ori asked.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo croaked, and drew back. He blinked the tears out of his eyes. “I haven’t… there hasn’t been a chick in – in centuries, that I know of…” More tears welled, though, with the thought of the possibilities. Thickly, he said, “a fire-drake raised outside of slavery and pain? Who would have thought it possible?”

There was silence behind him, then an intake of breath. “Well,” said Bofur, determined. “We’ll have to hide it, then.”

“What?” said Bilbo.

“Hide the egg,” said Bofur, “until help arrives.”

“And then what?” asked Ori.

Bofur shrugged. “I suppose we raise it.”

“You would help me?” Bilbo asked, and he could barely breathe for the tears in his eyes and the feelings lodged in his throat.

Bofur helped him climb out of the nest. “Aye. Now, tell me, how do we hide this as best we can?”

*

After doing what they could to shield and hide the egg, they tried to sneak Bilbo back out – they figured his presence might raise questions. They had no such luck, though.

“Bilbo!”

It was Dwalin, coming stumbling down a pile of gold with a smile on his face.

“Dwalin,” Bilbo said, leaning heavily on Bofur. He returned the smile. “How are things?”

“No Arkenstone yet.” He came to a stop before them. There were diamonds glittering on his belt. “And what of you? Have you come to help?”

“We wanted to show him a necklace,” Ori piped up. There was a certainty to his voice Bilbo hadn’t heard before. “But it was gone when we came. We were on our way back up.”

Dwalin shot Ori a smile. “Right, then, don’t let me hold you up. Healing fine?”

“Aye.” Ori patted Bilbo’s shoulder. “He’s a brave one, this.”

Chuckling heartily, Dwalin nodded. “Oh, aye, aye. Go ahead, then – and, Ori?” Ori nodded. “Come back later. I’ve got something for ya.”

Ori’s smile was warm and soft. “Okay.”

Their second escape attempt was also a failure. This time, it was Thorin. “Bilbo!” he exclaimed, turning to them with a smile. Bofur’s muffled sigh brought Bilbo’s spirits up; at least he wasn’t alone in this. “Welcome to the Halls of my father.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, leaning even more heavily on Bofur.

“Isn’t it all magnificent?” Thorin asked, turning in a circle and gesturing broadly to the room at large. He looked quite regal, with his furlined cloak and the massive golden clasps holding it in place – the crown upon his head and the gems adorning his hair, neck, waist and hands. “This, Bilbo… I will never be able to express my gratitude for this.”

Huffing a bit, Bilbo shifted his weight. Bofur gave him a worried glance and put an arm around his waist to steady him. “That’s quite alright, Thorin,” Bilbo said, hoping to the dear Lady that with time, Thorin would slip out of it. “I didn’t do much.”

Thorin turned back to face him. “Untrue, Master Hobbit, you – ” He noticed Bofur’s grasp on Bilbo, and something dark fluttered across his face. “ – have done _much_ for this quest. Come.” And with a single move he grasped Bilbo’s arm and dragged him away from Bofur. “I have a gift for you.”

Pain whipped through him, and Bilbo gasped. “Thorin Oakenshield!” he snapped, anger concealing the pain only briefly before he stumbled into Thorin’s arm. Clutching at the fur there and desperately trying to keep himself standing, he hissed, “you have no right to drag or tumble me around like I’m your little puppet! Is this a way to treat your friends?”

“He was _hurting_ you,” Thorin said, sounding partially confused and partially angered.

“No, you daft imbecile, he was _helping_ me, Thorin, I can barely stand!”

Something terribly weak replaced the darkness in Thorin’s face. He went to step back, but when Bilbo stubbornly held on to his arm – for _support_ , he told himself, for _support_ – he ceased the attempt. “I – I apologize,” Thorin said. “I did not… I had not realized…” He shook his head. “No matter, more the reason! Can you walk?”

“Barely.”

“Then I will bring it to you,” said Thorin. “Ori, Bofur – help him.” Both Ori and Bofur, who’d been watching the interaction with wide eyes, stumbled forward to support Bilbo. “I will be back,” said Thorin, and marched off into the heaps of gold.

Bofur and Ori shared an exhale of relief. “You shouldn’t antagonize him,” Ori whispered hurriedly. “He’s losing himself.”

Bilbo scoffed. “As though I didn’t know that! I’ll antagonize him as much as I want, he would never hurt me. Unless…” He sighed. “Unless he knew, of course.” Casting a glance about and finding no one nearby, he whispered, “you won’t ever find the Arkenstone within these halls.”

Ori’s eyes went wide as saucers. “You _took it_?” he hissed.

“No, no,” said Bilbo. “I, uhm. I ate it.”

In unison, “you _what!?_ ”

At that point, Thorin came marching back, this time holding something very familiar in his hands.

The Mithril shirt.

At once, Bilbo remembered what had happened the last time – Thorin, leaning in for a tender kiss – Bilbo, grasping for more, and the shared moment on a dusty bear rug, gasping into the cold air of Erebor.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, and bit his tongue.

“For your troubles, Bilbo,” said Thorin, and held it out with utmost care. “A gift… from me, to you. To ensure this will never happen again.”

Letting go of Ori’s shoulder, Bilbo took a tentative step forward. “Thank you,” he said. “I hope I’ll never have use for it.”

Thorin laughed, and for a moment he sounded so much like his old self that Bilbo had to choke down tears. “Wise words, Master Baggins, and ones I agree with. Come on – put it on.”

Bilbo took the chainmail in his shaking hands. He stared at it for a long moment, then sighed, “I can’t.”

“What? Whyever not?”

Sheepishly, Bilbo attempted a smile. “Can’t raise my arms.”

“Then let me help you,” Thorin suggested.

Bilbo took him in for a long moment, but there was nothing but sincerity and gentleness to his expression. “Alright,” Bilbo allowed.

And so Thorin unbuttoned his vest and slid it off his shoulders, folding it with the utmost care. Bilbo held his breath and couldn’t quite help the blush. _It’s for the shirt_ , he told himself, _it’s just the shirt_. But somehow that only made it worse, and when Thorin brushed his fingers down Bilbo’s bare arms to get the sleeves in place, Bilbo almost wished he’d be back on that bear rug with all the information he now had, rather than stay here and _not_ have that ever again.

When Thorin pulled back, he said, with a warming smile, “you look splendid.”

Bilbo was wrapped up in bloody bandages and hadn’t washed in weeks; his hair was tangled and he hadn’t brushed his fur since long before said wash. He spluttered something incomprehensible, then managed, “thank you?”

Chuckling, Thorin reached for Bilbo’s vest. Silently, Bilbo let him put that back on, as well.

He knelt to fix the buttons.

Bilbo was about to die. This was it, this was how he went out – Thorin kneeling before him in the great treasure chamber, Ori and Bofur wide eyed in the background. Yep. Sounds about right.

“May I accompany you back to camp?” Thorin asked.

And Bilbo was so dazed he said yes.

He didn’t get much farther than out of the treasure chamber before his sides gave out and he leaned into Thorin with a grunt. Thorin immediately went to support him. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Bilbo assured, pressing a hand against the throbbing ache. “Just a little – ooh, that stings – ”

Thorin lifted him into his arms. “You needn’t walk,” he muttered. “I have you.”

Bilbo wanted to complain. He really did; Thorin shouldn’t have to care for him like this, not when Bilbo wasn’t worth it – not when all of this was going to shatter and break into ruin the moment Thorin _knew._

But Thorin smelled nice beneath the scent of dust and dwarf, and Bilbo could turn his head and press his face into the furs adorning Thorin’s shoulders and Thorin’s hair would brush past his cheek and ear, and oh, oh, it was sweet.

“Thorin,” Bilbo mumbled, muffled by the thick fur. “You needn’t do this.”

“I know,” Thorin whispered, and began to walk. “But I want to.”

And Bilbo could almost forget – almost – where they were and what was happening, for Thorin was safe and home and hearth.

Dragons, like dwarves and elves, love only once. No matter what, Thorin would _always_ be safe and home and hearth.

Bilbo knew he shouldn’t.

But he couldn’t help it.

He was dozing off by the time they got back to the camp near the battlements – close enough for fresh air to get by, but not for chill to reach them. Thorin lowered him onto his bedroll like a mother putting a babe to rest, and they shared a smile before Thorin pressed a lingering kiss to Bilbo’s curls.

Then he left.

The warm sense of being close to his mate lingered only for some minutes, and then reality crashed over him like a frosty wave.

Bilbo cried. He cried so hard his sides began to bleed again, and his chest ached, and his throat hurt. Tears trailed down his neck and soaked into his shirt, and he cried more, and more, and didn’t stop, _couldn’t_ stop.

It was heartbreak and death and misery and it was so _stupid_ , Thorin was yet alive and by his side, and Thorin wasn’t even his – could never be his! And just because Bilbo was in love didn’t mean he had any claim to him, Thorin wasn’t his _mate_ , he’d despise Bilbo thinking of him like that!

And there it was. The core problem. _Bilbo_.

Bilbo was living a lie and it would not be long before it shattered, and Thorin, poor Thorin, would hate him for it.

Poor Thorin.

*

When Oin heard of Bilbo’s little walking-spell, he was exasperated and frustrated. “This I expected from Thorin,” he grumbled, unbinding the bandages to inspect the wounds, “but not from _you_ , Master Baggins!” But when he’d taken a proper look, he went silent. Bilbo was better now than the last time he’d checked, which was just that same morning.

The accelerated healing process was due to Thorin’s presence, but it wasn’t like Bilbo could say that – ‘oh no, hobbits heal faster in the presence of crowned royalty’? – no, it would be far too difficult to explain.

And so his miraculously fast healing was brushed and shrugged off, though with some confounded looks from those who’d heard of it. “So I can walk, then?” Bilbo asked.

“Aye,” Oin grumbled darkly, “but I don’t like it, so ye shouldn’t.”

Bilbo laughed. “Then I won’t.”

The moment he was alone on the ledge, he stood and hobbled his way over to the battlements. There he carefully peeked over the edge, looking out at the army of elves and men stationed just outside. “Yavanna,” he murmured, “that’s more than I remember.” He glanced uphill, where Dain would eventually appear.

It was empty and still.

For now.

Going back to his bedroll, Bilbo fished around in his pockets. He was sentimental, both for dragon and for hobbit, and so, when he had seen this little thing in Beorn’s garden…

He pulled out the acorn.

The first time he’d picked it up with an insane, scorching hope burning in his gut. It wasn’t an accident he’d chosen _acorn_ when he was already thirsting for Thorin Oakenshield.

This time, he’d just… wanted to. Maybe if he survived this whole thing, he could plant it like a regular seed, and watch it grow.

And maybe it would just fall out of his pocket somewhere and remain forgotten.

Bilbo sighed and stuck it back into his pocket, glancing at the hallway that led down to the treasure chamber. Thorin would undoubtedly be there, now – searching and searching for that thrice cursed stone. He would never find it, and what would that do to him? Would he search until death took him, or would he give up?

No. Bilbo knew dragon-sickness as well as any other of his kind. He would never give up.

*

After the sun went down, the dwarves slowly began to trickle back to camp. Bombur first, to make some scarce food – not that they had much left, but they made do with that they could scavenge from the bottoms of their packs and the more or less untouched kitchens – and then the others, a bit after.

Bilbo chatted lightly with them all, smiling and chuckling at any jokes that were thrown his way. If they regarded gold and coin more than before, then he didn’t comment on it, only tucked it away into the corner of himself that hurt and ached.

“Any news yet?” he asked Ori and Bofur, who’d said themselves willing to check on the egg sometimes. They shook their head.

“Oh, nay,” said Gloin, who was fiddling with Oin’s hearing trumpet. “No Arkenstone. Nothing that could even look like it. Nay.”

Ori and Bofur shared a glance, then looked at Bilbo with a helpless little chuckle.

“And Thorin?” Bilbo asked. The chatter in the group stilled. “Still down there?”

Nobody dared speak up. Most were finding other things to look at or toy with, and those who didn’t gave each other pitiful looks.

“Alright,” Bilbo sighed. “I suppose it’ll work out.”

Thorin, of course, chose that exact moment to show up. “Conspiring against me, Bilbo?” he asked, with a little twitch of his lips that spoke of amusement – and thank goodness for that.

Seeing him outside of the chamber brought a sigh of relief to Bilbo’s lips. “Course not,” he nonetheless scoffed. “Whyever would I do that?”

Despite the tenseness of the Company, Thorin chuckled. “Precisely. Will you walk with me?”

Bilbo glanced about, saw every worried look he was given, rolled his eyes, and stood. “Of course.”

Thorin led him some way away from the camp, walking along the old, formal battlements. “How are you, Bilbo?”

“Alright,” Bilbo dismissed. “Wounds are healing fine.” He shot Thorin an awkward little smile. “How about you?”

Humming, Thorin came to a stop. He spent a moment looking out across the field before them, a handful of elvish tents scattered about. The shadow returned. “I will be better the moment these worms are off this holy land,” he grumbled. He turned to Bilbo, pulling a necklace out of a pocket. “I worry for you, with their presence. Here – bear this, so they know where you belong.”

Bilbo stared at the necklace and his heart pumped ice through his veins. “Thorin,” he said, “I can’t accept this.”

The necklace was pretty, but not something that would ever look good on Bilbo. It was huge and clunky and in a deep red that would blend into Bilbo’s skin. Truth to be told, Bilbo wouldn’t have been interested in it at all if it weren’t for the fact that he could sense the pure minerals and fine gems.

Thorin frowned down at the necklace as though it had bitten off Kili’s head. “Of course,” he said, “it’s not enough. I’ll find something – ”

“No!” Bilbo blurted. “No, Thorin, goodness – I don’t _want_ anything.”

“Then how will they know you’re under my protection?”

Bilbo huffed. “’They’ are not a universal enemy, and _I_ don’t need your protection. I can take care of myself!” When his words did nothing but darken the shadows cast over Thorin’s face, Bilbo, trying to lighten the mood, forced a chuckle and said, “Besides, I already have a necklace – remember?”

Thorin reached out and grasped the silver pendant resting on Bilbo’s breast, glaring at it with fury. “This simple thing?” he asked, and it was a dark, dark grumble.

Bilbo swallowed. “Yes,” he said, and his voice shook only a little. “Now if you would – ” He tried to step back, but Thorin only tightened his fist around the pendant, gaze flickering to Bilbo’s in a warning.

“You deserve something much finer than this _filth_ ,” Thorin said, and there it was again – Smaug, as an echo beneath his words, the shadow of a hiss.

“Thorin…” Bilbo tried. His eyes widened; in Thorin’s there was intent. “ _No!_ Don’t – ”

Thorin yanked at the pendant and the chain snapped in half.

Bilbo thought, _nononoNONONO **NO**_ and tumbled backwards, changing in the air, bones breaking and mending and cells tearing and melting and back, back, over the battlements and tumbling to the ground beneath fully transformed.

He lay panting on the ground, heart racing.

When he dared bring himself to glance up he found a gaping Thorin leaning over the stone. The whispered _Bilbo?_ was inaudible, but Bilbo knew how those lips shaped his name and read him well.

( _confusionhorrorhatred)_

 _I’m sorry_ Bilbo wanted to say, and _I can explain_ Bilbo wanted to say, and _forgive me forgive me forgive me I love you I love you I love you_ Bilbo wanted to say.

He spread his wings and raced into the skies, holding his breath and not daring to look back. Up, up, up he went – without a thought, without a care, through and above the clouds.

(What Bilbo did not see was the lone black feather that drifted towards Erebor; snatched out of the air and clutched to Thorin’s chest as Thorin _wept._ )

*

Bilbo stubbornly decided that he did not have the time nor energy to mope or despair, and so he shoved his own emotions into a nifty little box and flew. It did hurt, but not much more than a sting, and this was more important than any pains Bilbo might feel. He had an important mission: scouting.

There were armies on the way, both dwarf and orc, and if Bilbo could get their precise positions…

Well, he might still turn the tide.

*

A day later he returned to Erebor, stubbornly not looking to the mountain’s gates. At the elven camp,, he was met with weapons. “Wait!” he called, pressing himself flat against the ground, “wait, it’s Bilbo, I need to – I must speak with Gandalf!”

One of the men pointing spears his way frowned. “Bilbo, the hobbit? Why would I believe you?”

“Bard,” Bilbo sighed in relief, “when we arrived at Lake Town I handed you a single golden coin, remember? I thanked you for your help.”

Bard squinted. “That much is true,” he allowed. “But you were no dragon then.”

“I mean you no harm, but – please, _please._ I _must_ speak to Gandalf,” Bilbo said, gesturing with his claws as he spoke. When the nearest elf pointedly strung her bow harder, though, he obediently tensed.

A familiar and loved voice broke through the hassle. “What ever is the matter here?” Gandalf huffed, striding forward between the ranks of men and elves. “Would you lower your arms! Bilbo speaks true.” He came closer – so close Bilbo had to turn his head to be able to look at him without going crossed-eyed – and sighed. “My friend, what happened?”

“Thorin happened,” Bilbo grumbled. A sting of pain, the echo of, _I knew this would happen I knew it I knew it I knew it,_ but he pushed it aside. “The necklace, he broke it. I can’t turn back.” Pain flickered across Gandalf’s expression. “But, Gandalf, listen to me – there are other worries approaching.”

The pain faded into solemnity. “What do you know?”

“Three armies,” Bilbo said, and the men nearby shifted, muttering amongst themselves. “One dwarf led by Dain of the Iron Hills, two orc. They approach fast – Dain will arrive first, then the orcs will approach with were-worms through the hills. At last, the second orc army will come from Ravenhill – shutting us in.”

“Then it is worse than I had feared,” Gandalf muttered. Louder, he said, “I will take the news to Lord Thranduil immediately. Bard, will you spread the word? We have a dragon by our side.” To Bilbo, he muttered, “you will fight, yes?”

As though he’d come this far to just watch! “Aye.”

“Good,” said Gandalf. He started marching away, then seemed to think better of it. “After this is over… will you tell me how you know the things you know?”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “If we both survive this, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for reading!! <3


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Belladonna and Bungo were the only ones in the entire Shire who knew of Bilbo’s roots. It was Gandalf who had told them, feeling it only fair to explain who they’d be taking in. But Gandalf had not told them much: it was Bilbo who, by the second weekend, sat before the fireplace and told quiet tales of slavery and pain._

_They had not been cruel to him, but apologize they did, nonetheless._

_Bilbo insisted there was nothing to forgive, but they insisted in return. In the end, he accepted it._

*

Bilbo fought in the battle as though watching through a window submerged in water. It was such an odd, prickling sensation: this was it.

This was it.

Everything was for these tense moments – the life of a dragon, the pain, the loss, the hurt. The gain, the hope, the self-assurance. Everything.

And Bilbo, soaring across the battlefield, shrouding orcs with mist and grabbing the rest in greedy claws, was struggling to accept it. It wasn’t a thing to focus on, in the moment – there was only the constant scanning of the fields, looking out for the Free People and doing what he could to lessen the orc armies.

There was only friend and foe and orc and mist and the increasing pain beneath his wings, blood in his feathers and scrapes against his belly – knives and swords and arrows that had found their mark, but none digging deep enough to draw blood.

Every turn he made he looked about for any familiar faces, and every turn where he found none his heart sunk. Several times he yanked orcs or goblins away from Dain, but none others caught his fancy, and he helped in the general areas more than anything else.

Dale he kept away from, for the most part – when he could, he stopped orcs from approaching the city, but it wasn’t often he was close enough.

He was circling above Gandalf when the dwarves – _his_ dwarves, the Company, _his_ Company – shattered the blockades and charged through. _Thank goodness_ , thought Bilbo, and let out a warning shriek to distract the orcs and give the dwarves and elves whatever advantage he could.

Swooping, Bilbo took out another row – and another, another – the orcs were diminishing. He lost track of time, cloaking as much as he could and killing what foul creatures he could reach.

“Bilbo!” Gandalf called, and Bilbo flew lower, lower, lower – “How close is the last army?”

Huffing, Bilbo rose again, looking outward towards Ravenhill.

And his heart nearly shattered.

The army was approaching, yes – vast and large like a cloud creeping across the land – but what caught Bilbo’s attention was Thorin, standing alone at the frozen lake. A dark blotch against all the pale – pale, so pale, like the cloudless sky – and Bilbo stared. What was he doing?

And as Bilbo looked, Azog _burst forth from the ice_ and pinned

Thorin.

to the ground.

(sword and blood and loss and thunder and Thorin and)

Bilbo had never roared before – had never been angry enough to do so – but now it split his throat and ripped out of his maw and echoed across the battlefield, and suddenly he understood Smaug’s fury and the tales of dragons, jealous and raging.

( _and_ _Thorin was his his his his **his**_ )

Never before had he flown so fast, a lightning bolt across the sky, and he didn’t think, didn’t stop, only dug his claws into Azog’s back and tore him clean off the ground. Azog roared at him and Bilbo roared back, ignoring the sharp bite of metal digging into his feet.

He flew up, and up, and up – and when the people on the ground beneath them were nothing but small pinpricks, Bilbo let go.

A second. Two.

And the chains that had been binding him to this destiny for millennium _shattered_.

Bilbo drew a breath so deep it hurt, relief flooding his every sense, the wind stinging, the clouds burning, everything so sharp and clear and fantastic. He was light, light, every move easy and the future bright.

He was free.

He hadn’t even known he was bound.

*

Bilbo landed heavily when the battle was declared ended, searching for Gandalf in the scurry of dead, wounded, and living. He wasn’t difficult to spot – a splotch of gray and dusted colours in the sea of gold and rust and blood.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo called, making his way towards him as fast as he could, mindful of his steps, lest he tread on a person. “Thorin was hurt the last I saw of him – over on Ravenhill. Thought you ought to know.”

“Thank you,” said Gandalf, and gave Bilbo a once-over. “You are bleeding, my fair friend. How deep are your wounds?”

Bilbo shook his head, trying to expel the dizziness creeping upon him. “Not so bad they won’t heal. Where am I needed?”

Gandalf shielded his eyes and looked about the field. “Bring Thorin here, if you can,” he said. Then his voice turned sad. “And then… help carry the dead.”

Inclining his head, Bilbo took off. He’d rather not talk to Thorin yet – he didn’t know what to say, much less what to do – but he would not leave him to bleed to death on the pale blue ice, either.

Thorin was still by Ravenhill. He was bleeding, but alive and as stubborn as ever, limping his way across the ice – towards Erebor. The bloody trail that he left behind, he did not seem to care about.

Hoping desperately the ice would hold, Bilbo landed beside him. “Thorin,” he greeted nervously. “You’re requested back at camp.”

Thorin was quiet for a long moment, fingers flexing by his sides. His expression was unreadable as he stared, gaze raking over every scale and feather on Bilbo’s body. “I am doing as best I can,” Thorin finally rumbled.

“I know,” said Bilbo. “Which is why I was sent to carry you.”

Another long, long moment. Then Thorin cleared his throat. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“It will be a bit uncomfortable,” Bilbo warned, shifting his weight to creep closer.

“Breathing is a bit uncomfortable,” Thorin said. “I do it anyway.”

And with a shuddery inhale, Bilbo closed his claws around Thorin.

He handed him off to Gandalf with care, and Gandalf then ushered him on towards the elven healing tents that had already been raised. When he caught Bilbo’s worried look, he put a hand on the feathers adorning Bilbo’s neck. “Not to fret, my boy. He’s a dwarf – he’ll be alright.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo sadly, “that is what I fear.”

Gandalf’s expression softened. “Come, then. There are plenty more to gather.”

Bilbo spent long hours flying back and forth in the hills, gathering the bodies of the dead – dwarf, men, elf and orc alike. The stench of death and loss burned down his throat, and his wings ached, and his sides itched and groaned.

Yet he did not cease before Gandalf called him down. “Your help today has been invaluable,” he said, patting what he could reach of Bilbo’s wing. “And for that we thank you. But now, you should rest.”

“Rest, rest, rest,” Bilbo mumbled. “Where would I find that? In Erebor I am surely not welcome, and I don’t see a tent that fits me anywhere. I suppose I could settle in one of the were-worm holes, but I would not rest well, knowing what had passed through before me.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Indeed there are no tents, but for Erebor you should not say for certain. I’ve had several worried dwarves come asking for your whereabouts and welfare.”

Bilbo lit up. “Ori and Bofur?”

“And Fili, Kili, Bifur and Nori, and Balin, too – as well as a red-haired elf,” said Gandalf with a smile. “The rest I would think are merely busy or unconscious – Balin mentioned the others would be quite relieved.”

“Still,” said Bilbo, and his good mood was gone, “I would quite prefer to rest as hobbit. They require much less for comfort.”

It might seem odd to put hobbits as creatures that required little, but truth to be told, dragons were quite picky. They would not rest well under an open sky, nor would they in another’s territory. A hoard or treasure of some kind – not necessarily gold – nearby would be just a boon.

Gandalf hummed. “Do you yet have the necklace?”

Bilbo shook his head. “I fear Thorin might have it, if he did not drop it on the battlements.”

“Hm. Well – no matter.” Gandalf brushed a hand over Bilbo’s side. “Will you grant me a feather from your hide?”

“Go ahead,” said Bilbo, and barely felt the light pinch of the feather being tugged loose.

Gandalf brought the feather to his mouth and mumbled something in a language Bilbo did not recognize. It glowed faintly for a moment. With a smile, Gandalf put the feather back in place – and there was a strange sensation, like pinching reversed, and then Gandalf pulled back. “There,” said Gandalf. “Your feathers are now your curse-anchor.”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

“Well, and your hair, of course, since they are linked,” Gandalf said, with his typical half-shouldered shrug. “As long as it is intact, the changing should go smoothly. You may try now, if you wish – but I must warn you, I have no potions on me.”

“Am I needed?” Bilbo asked, and would have crossed his fingers and hoped dearly, if only he’d had fingers. “And would you carry me to a healer’s tent?”

“You are not,” said Gandalf, “and I would.”

And without another word Bilbo transformed. There was pain, pain, pain, then dizziness, darkness, and nothing.

*

Nothing.

*

“Little one.”

“It’s you,” Bilbo breathed, and when they put a palm to his cheek, he was overwhelmed by love and adoration.

“It’s me,” said the Universe itself, and smiled. “You did your job well.”

“I’m not done yet,” Bilbo said, and there was no fear or worry to it, only harsh determination. “I won’t rest before the Evil is gone.”

The Universe blinked, then smiled again. “Then you will do that well, too. Put the weight upon your shoulders and carry it so; I know you can.” They leaned down to press a kiss to his brow. “Go on, then. Live the life you never had.”

“I will,” Bilbo whispered, and fell into a hush, asleep, fading into nothing.

*

Nothing.

*

Bilbo woke slowly, which was a blessing. While laying in bed – and it was a bed, that was the first he noticed – he assessed the situation. He was in a tent, and it was dark. The sounds were mainly soft murmuring and moans of pain, so it was likely nighttime. The bedsheets were soft and warm and easy to snuggle into, so likely elven, rather than mannish.

There were bandages wrapped around his torso, restricting movement slightly. When Bilbo reached down to feel them, he learned two things: one, they were of far better quality than the battered rags they’d found in Erebor. Two, it hurt to move.

Deciding it was far too late and he was far too bothered to get up and look for people, Bilbo closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

*

Next time he woke, there was an elven healer with him. “Ah,” they said, giving him a kind smile. “Master Dragon, you’re awake. How fare you?”

“My name is Bilbo,” said Bilbo drily.

A light blush rose in the elf’s cheeks. “Apologies – your name is not the trait most know you by.”

Bilbo decided to let it pass. It wasn’t like it bothered him much. “Quite alright,” he said, and then, changing the subject: “do you know if any of the Company are – grievously wounded?”

“They’re all alright,” said the elf, and began to clean off Bilbo’s face with a wet sponge. “Some have been asking for you.”

“Who?” asked Bilbo, and didn’t dare hope.

The elf smiled. “I know not their names. The princes are among them.”

That was better than expected. “Fili and Kili,” said Bilbo, and the relief must be evident in his tone, he was certain. “That does make sense. Are they nearby?”

“After I check your wounds, I will inform them you are awake.”

Bilbo thanked them, then hissed in pain when they prodded at his wounds. When they cast him a worried glance, he waved them away. He’d be fine, with time.

After the elf had cleaned his wounds and bound him anew, they disappeared out of the tent. Bilbo wasn’t alone for long, though – it took only a few minutes before the two dwarves stormed into the tent.

“Uncle Bilbo!” they cried, nearly throwing themselves onto his bedside to fling their arms around him in two synchronised side-hugs.

“Fili,” Bilbo sighed in relief, lifting his arms through the pain to return their embrace, “Kili. How fare you?”

They pulled back, giving Bilbo scandalized looks. “How fare _you_?” Kili retorted.

“Well,” said Bilbo, “but it’s hard to move.”

“We’re doing alright,” said Fili. “I’ve been stepping in for uncle Thorin in some of the meetings he can’t attend – Kili’s been helping his elf tend to the wounded.”

Kili rolled his eyes. “Her name is Tauriel.”

Fili gave Bilbo a look that screamed ‘see what I mean?’ “Kili’s elf,” he said, “Tauriel.”

“She’s not _mine_ ,” Kili muttered, but there was a fierce blush creeping up his cheeks that spoke otherwise.

Fili smirked at him and knocked an elbow into his ribs. “She’ll be soon, everyone can see that.” He turned to Bilbo, remarking that, “Thorin’s very exasperated. He’s hoping my One is a dwarf or man, so that Dis won’t have to go carving more pebbles for heirs.”

Bilbo blinked. “Just exasperated?”

“Bilbo,” said Kili, a mischievous glint to his eyes, “I told you, he wouldn’t be mad.”

“Yes, I suppose you did,” Bilbo said. Again not daring to hope, he asked, “how is he?”

They fell into awkward silence. Then they exchanged a look. “He has… questions,” Fili tentatively begun.

“We all have,” Kili shot in.

“And he’s been jumping to all sorts of conclusions,” Fili continued, “but – if you’re asking about the… sickness… then he’s rid of that. He’s wounded, like most of us, but’s been chained to the bed by Oin.” At Bilbo’s horrified look, he hastened to say, “metaphorically!”

Bilbo sighed, then swallowed, then shook his head. It was good to hear that Thorin was better – and that the sickness had let go so soon – but he still wasn’t too keen on having long, in-depth discussions with him. Not about this particular topic, anyways. “I will talk to Thorin myself,” he said nonetheless, feeling quite brave. “But if any of you boys have questions, talk to Ori or Bofur. They know.”

Their eyes boggled. “They _know!?_ ”

“They’ve known since Beorn’s,” Bilbo said, smiling helplessly at their offended looks. “Not by my choice. They overheard a conversation.”

“By my beard,” muttered Fili. “Looks like we’ll have to be overhearing more conversations, from now on.”

“Quite right, brother mine,” said Kili, with a resolute nod. Then he turned to Bilbo. “You can’t walk, and neither can uncle. How about he writes you a letter? It’s more effective than shouting.”

Bilbo chuckled at the mental image of he and Thorin having a shouting match from separate tents. “That’s alright. I’ll answer as best I can.”

“Good, then that’s settled.” Fili clasped Kili’s shoulder and solemnly said, “we make for Ori.”

Kili nodded, and at once they went off – as one, chaotic entity.

With their disappearance – and acceptance – Bilbo sunk into the pillows, sighing heavily.

It was going to be a long post-battle experience.

He blinked, then sat abruptly, raising a hand to his head as a solid realization hit.

What was he going to do with the rest of his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so some of you might have noticed that there's 13 chapters total! 
> 
> For you guys' sake, I've cut the story short and ended it where I first wanted to: chapter 12 (displayed as 13). But Lou! you might cry, that leaves 11 000 words unread! And yes, yes, you're right. Which is why I'll be posting those 11 000 words (along with two other deleted scenes) in a follow-up work to this one! That is, 11 000 words of sweet Thorin and Bilbo, some angst, some new characters, more culture building, and uh... an abandoned storyline. The story will feature what I was planning for future chapters, as well as some art of new characters and a recording of a self-written poem/song. 
> 
> I'll start posting the scrapped chapters as soon as the storyline of 'through the darkness, rise' is completed - hope to see you there!


	12. Chapter Eleven

_Master Baggins,_

_First of all, I wish to apologize. My treatment of you has been far from fair, and I have not been listening to your wishes or desires. Though some of it can be attributed to illness, it is not all, and I truly am sorry for it. If you wish to no longer have anything to do with me, the Company, or Erebor, I understand. I will be sad to see you go, but pleased you put yourself first._

_Second of all, I am uncertain about you. You did not seem shocked at suddenly being a dragon. Am I right to assume you have been cursed? Have you been hiding this, suffering in silence, all this time? You are under no obligation to answer, of course. I would only like to offer my sincerest apologies if that is the case. I should have noticed._

_Third, I wish you well. I heard your wounds were healing well, which is a relief. You have done too much for ~~me~~ the Company to suffer all this hurt. Though it’s likely not enough, I offer what help we can give._

_Waiting for your response,_

_Thorin Oakenshield._

*

_Thorin,_

_Oh, shut your mouth and stop with the nonsense. You’re not wholly responsible for actions you took while sick._

_And before you start – you’ve been nothing but kind to me and I see no reason for why you should apologize. If anything, **I** should be sorry (and I am). I have kept secrets from you – all of you – from the very beginning, and told lies all the way through the trip. It was for my personal safety, but I wish I hadn’t done it, nonetheless._

_As for your question, no. I was born a dragon at the end of the First Age, bred to fight in the War. I escaped and hid away until just a few decades ago, when I was involved in a battle and fled to save myself. Gandalf found me, and upon my request, gave me a hobbit form and took me to the Shire. It’s easily the one I prefer, even though **that form** is the curse. I am a dragon, Thorin. Though I look like and act like and think like a hobbit, I was born a dragon and consider myself one. ~~I understand if you don’t want to~~ -_

_I have been healing well, thank you. The transformation is most taxing – the wounds beneath my arms are not that bad, all things considered – but it shouldn’t be bothering me for too long. And what of you? Are you healing well?_

_~~Yours~~ _

_~~With care~~ _

_Hoping you are well,_

_Bilbo._

  1. _And do call me Bilbo! My name hasn’t changed since last we spoke._



*

_~~Master Bag~~ _

_Bilbo,_

_~~I don’t underst~~ _

_I fear we would go on forever if we continued down this path, my rightful apologies and your too-kind denial. Let us not fight over this much more, for we would not get anywhere in a debate._

_Who else knows about this? I understand why you’d rather be a gentle hobbit than a ~~evil~~ ~~cruel~~ dragon. I’m assuming you’ll keep to being a hobbit, then, when you prefer it?_

_I am glad you heal alright. Are you getting proper treatment? ~~Would~~ Do the elves know what they are doing? As for me, I fare well. My foot is bothersome, since I ~~cannot~~ can barely walk – but the rest is fine._

_Thorin._

_*_

_Stubborn oaf,_

_Fine, let’s agree to disagree, then. ~~Though you shouldn’t apologize when I~~_

_As for who knows… I **did** kill a third of the orcs during the battle, and several elves and men saw me transform back. So practically everyone, I suppose. They’re all aware a dragon helped, anyway. Ori and Bofur know more details – it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve spread the word._

_It’s much less troublesome to be hobbit than dragon, so no, I’m not about to be dragon full time._

_Yavanna, Thorin, elves are renowned for their healing. Of course they are treating me right, and of course they know what they’re doing._

_Bilbo._

  1. _What happened to your foot?_



*

Bilbo had managed to get his hands on a crocheting needle. “Anything,” he’d begged of the elven healer that’d been unfortunate enough to ask about his welfare, “any kind of needlework!”

The poor elf had bolted as soon as they could. At least they returned soon after, needle and yarn clutched in hand. Bilbo had thanked them profusely, apologized for the trouble, and began to work.

There wasn’t anything _important_ he had to make, but sitting in silence with nothing to busy his hands was the worst form of torture. He began crocheting some mittens for his own sake, for though it was yarn he’d never worked with before – elven, and very fine – he knew that when winter set in, his skin would start cracking and taking damage at just about anything.

He was half-way done with the first mitten when Gandalf poked his head into the tent. “Ah, there you are,” he said, and stepped inside with a kind smile.

Bilbo put down the yarn, a sting of worry flickering through him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” Gandalf said, gesturing reassuringly. “I merely wished to talk to you.” He pulled a stool up to Bilbo’s bed and sat gingerly. “How are you, Bilbo?”

“Just fine,” said Bilbo, who was really getting tired of these questions.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “Are you, now?”

Bilbo sighed, putting the yarn fully aside. “What do you want to hear, Gandalf? That every inch of me aches and I am wrung tight by worry and fear? That I don’t know who I am, much less what I wish to do? That I’m uncertain about my place and I’m terrified of what will happen now that everyone – _everyone ­_ – knows?”

“Oh, dear friend,” Gandalf said, sagging in the stool and giving Bilbo a sorrowful look, “I wish I could console you, but…”

“But there’s not much you can do, is there?” said Bilbo bitterly. “Then do let me have my crocheting in peace, so I may think of things beyond my own pain, thank you.”

“I only wished for you to be honest with yourself,” Gandalf said meekly. When Bilbo refused to grant him an answer to that, he sighed, and continued. “I’m leaving these lands soon – I wanted you to know.”

The fight drained out of Bilbo like blood from bitten prey. Suddenly a fauntling once again, Bilbo asked, “where are you going?”

“Away from here,” said Gandalf. “I cannot tell you much more. I will be taking a detour to Rivendell, however – and I wanted to offer to go with you, if you’re returning to the Shire.”

And there it was, the question that had been bothering Bilbo for the last days: where would he go? What would he do? “That is kind of you,” he allowed, “and I would quite like to accept.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “But?”

Bilbo glanced aside and sighed. “I cannot. There is something – keeping me here – a force I don’t… understand.” It was true; while it was difficult to remain here now when things were so uncertain, there wasn’t a single bone in his body that yearned to be elsewhere. “No, I can’t leave. Not yet.”

“I expected no less,” Gandalf said, inclining his head. “You are noble, Bilbo Baggins. It’s one of your best qualities. Then, before I leave…” He leaned forward, giving Bilbo a heavy look. “Will you tell me, now, after all these years – who are you?”

“Ah.” Bilbo sighed and sank into his pillows. “Yes, well… hm.” He threw about various thoughts, trying to find the right words to explain himself – and failing – before deciding to just jump into it and begin. “I was born a hobbit in September of 2890, the Third Age.” Gandalf blinked, then frowned, but made no move to interrupt. “Lived a decent life, the biological child of Belladonna and Bungo… until I turned fifty, and you showed up, declaring you had an adventure to bring me on.” Bilbo shrugged. “Long story incredibly shortened, I went. Trolls, goblins, orcs, wargs… you know what happened. And in the battle, I died.”

“You died,” Gandalf repeated, somewhat uncertain. Not disbelieving – just uncertain.

“Yes.” Bilbo fiddled a bit with the bedsheets, not looking at Gandalf as he continued. It was a thing hard to believe, and he so _wanted_ Gandalf to believe him. “And on the other side, I met the Universe. The Essence of all we are.” He stilled. Quietly, he said, “and it sent me back. As a dragon, no less.”

They sat in silence for a few long, long seconds. And then Gandalf said, “hadn’t I known you, I would not have believed you.” Bilbo glanced up at him, uncertain – Gandalf was smiling, though. “But I know you, Bilbo. What you say makes sense, and I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

Gandalf didn’t say a word when Bilbo wiped away a few stray tears. When Bilbo pulled himself together again, he asked, “Smaug’s presence lingers on the hoard, does it not?”

“It does,” said Bilbo, and shook his head. “I can’t remove it on my own – it’s far too much.”

“And with my help?” asked Gandalf, with a twinkle in his eye.

Bilbo blinked. Hope surged in him. “Then I… likely could. I’d have to replace her presence with mine, but – I can make it kind.”

“Then we will do that, when you feel good enough to walk. And afterwards…” Gandalf smiled a sad little smile. “Afterwards, I will leave.”

Gandalf always left, in the end. Bilbo understood, of course. It didn’t mean it hurt any less. “Then you leave,” he echoed, and bowed his head.

There was the sound of scuffing feet just outside the tent, then Kili’s voice muttering darkly about, “really shouldn’t be up,” and –

Bilbo bit his cheek hard.

And Thorin, grumbling back that, “you sound like an elf,” Kili asking, “and is that a bad thing?” in a voice that spoke of only one correct answer and Thorin better get it right, and –

The two dwarves staggered into the tent. Thorin was leaning heavily onto Kili, face flushed and expression one of intense focus. Kili, however, only looked frustrated.

Chuckling, Gandalf stood. “And with that, I shall take my leave. Goodbye for now, Bilbo.”

Kili dumped Thorin onto the stool next to Bilbo’s bed, hissed, “you better not walk on your own,” and followed Gandalf outside.

There was blood rushing in Bilbo’s ears. His heart was beating so hard and fast he could barely make out what was going on outside the tent. Even looking at Thorin was a minor struggle – he was rugged and unkept, hair dirty and tangled and dried blood coating his clothes. Bandages were visible through the oversized mannish shirt he bore, and his eyes were bruised and his cheeks more hollow than usual.

Bilbo blurted, “you’re not supposed to be walking!”

Thorin blinked, then cracked a smile. It was a genuine, if tired, expression. “I wanted to see you.”

And Bilbo couldn’t really be mad at that. “Well,” he said, trying anyway. “Well – ! Well, I’ve been wanting to see you, too, but I haven’t come marching into your tent, now, have I?”

“I wasn’t precisely marching,” Thorin muttered, scratching the back of his neck as he looked the other way. “Either way… my foot is healing. Perhaps I should not be walking. But I am.”

“You are the most stubborn person I’ve had the pleasure to deal with in my long, long life,” Bilbo sighed. “Why did you risk your health and welfare to see me face to face when letters clearly sufficed?”

“They did not,” said Thorin drily.

Bilbo opened his mouth.

Then he closed it again.

“Fair enough,” he grunted. “Still – how come you’re here?”

Thorin stuck his hand into one of the large pockets in his far-too-large pants. Mannish, those, too. “I wanted to return this,” he said, and handed over a folded parchment.

Curious, Bilbo reached out and took it. When he unfolded it, though, his own handwriting spilled out at him. He raised an eyebrow at Thorin. “Why?”

“Turn it.”

Bilbo flipped the page and felt his heart tremble.

Numbly, he said, “you weren’t meant to see that.”

“I know,” said Thorin softly. “And so I wished to return it.”

It was poetry – Bilbo’s poetry, to be exact. He wasn’t finished, yet, the words weren’t quite clicking together – but there was enough that Thorin would be able to piece together some resemblance of meaning. Lines like _the crownless again shall be king_ and _augite and silver_ and _succumbing to the call of home_ were quite damning, after all.

In the same tone, he meekly said, “it’s not done, yet.” It was a poor attempt at covering up his own discomfort. If there was one thing Bilbo despised, it was sharing his writing when it wasn’t _ready_ to be shared. And this specific poem was definitely not ready whatsoever.

It was irrational to be frustrated or angry with _Thorin_ over this – he had, after all, been quite kind and _returned_ the bare bones of Bilbo’s writing – and so Bilbo tried his very best to fold the paper and tuck it away at the bottom of the yarn pile beside his bed.

“Is writing your Craft?” Thorin asked, tone light and curious. It was an attempt at an olive branch, Bilbo reckoned – but when he glanced over at him, there was nothing but curiosity and honesty to him. Thorin, misunderstanding the glance, hurried to say, “it’s only – it’s quite good. You’re quite good at it.”

Brushing aside the compliment, Bilbo tentatively said, “what exactly does a Craft entail? We don’t… have anything like that in Hobbiton.”

He wasn’t expecting much – secretive dwarves and all that – but Thorin only startled. Some light colour rushed into his cheeks. “Ah… apologies. I wasn’t aware.” He hummed, frowning in thought. “Dwarrow have – Crafts. It’s not uncommon to have more than one, but few have more than two, and even fewer more than three.” He gestured a bit loosely. “It’s… a passion, of a sort. More than a hobby, and different from work. All dwarves know how to smith, mine, and fight, and most work in those fields but have other types of Crafts.”

Bilbo hummed. Poem all but forgotten, he said, “so it’s sort of like a lifehood?”

Thorin blinked. “Lifehood?”

“Oh!” Bilbo smiled a little sheepishly. “It seems we do have an equivalent, then. It’s very much like what you described – a skill you are renowned for, even though you might not work with it.”

“Ah!” Thorin lit up. “Yes, that’s it precisely.”

Curious, Bilbo tilted his head. “What’s your Craft?”

“Smithing primarily,” said Thorin, hand flickering to his side. It was an easy motion to recognize – grasping for a weapon. There was none there now, of course, but instinct remained instinct, nonetheless. “And fighting, secondarily.” He spared a small smile for Bilbo, then asked, “and you? What is your – your lifehood?”

“Not writing, as you thought,” Bilbo admitted, a bit smug at the eyebrows raised in surprise. “My lifehood is yarnwork. Knitting, crocheting, embroidery, and so on.”

“You sell clothes?” Thorin asked, slightly puzzled.

“Heavens, no!” Bilbo exclaimed. “It is a _passion,_ not work. Though Lobelia would like it if I sold my creation, I’d imagine,” he grumbled.

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, though there was no way he would know who Lobelia was. Maybe Bilbo’s distaste got the meaning across well enough. “Then…” Thorin frowned. “Then what do you work as?”

“I’m head of the Baggins estate,” Bilbo said. “We’re the main producers of vegetables in the local area – I have several farms under my name.”

“You’re – you’re the head of a clan?”

“I wouldn’t exactly…” Bilbo began, a bit flustered. But then he thought about it. “Hm… somewhat, I suppose. I deal with the finances and… produce information, and such.” There was much more to it, but Thorin was probably not interested in hearing about it. “So that’s my work, and my lifehood. Writing is just a hobby.”

“And gardening?” Thorin asked. There was a small smile on his face – an honest, kind smile Bilbo had only seen on him a few times before. It was the smile he bore when Bilbo put on the mithril shirt; when Bilbo had caught him from falling in Beorn’s flower fields. “Is that not a hobby?”

Bilbo frowned. “No, of course not.” When Thorin’s smile fell in favour for a confused expression, he tried to explain. “Gardening is – it’s not farming, Thorin. Farming is work. Gardening is… it’s prayer.”

Thorin leaned back in his chair. “ _Prayer_ ,” he repeated, and it sounded like he’d seen heaven. “Of course… for the Green Lady.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, and smiled at his overwhelmed expression. “For Yavanna. Do you not do that, for Mahal?”

“Every Craft is a gift to Mahal,” Thorin said. He shrugged. “For me, that means smithing.”

“I see.”

They fell into silence, Bilbo plucking at the bedsheets and glancing up at Thorin every now and again. Despite his initial despair at his presence, Bilbo didn’t want him to go. He felt better already – physically and mentally both, likely because of Thorin’s closeness and kindness. His instincts still counted him as _mate_ – would probably always do.

But even though he didn’t want him to go, it didn’t mean he knew what to say. There was this massive gap between them, deep and encompassing, and so dark it drew the gaze away from anything else. It was frightening. Bilbo wanted to cross it – wanted to _talk_ to Thorin about this, to get to the bottom of everything, to stop _worrying –_ but he had no clue how.

And while Bilbo stood fretting on his side, Thorin _leapt_. “What will you do now?”

Bilbo swallowed drily, barely daring to look at him. “What do you mean?” He knew what Thorin meant. There was no doubt about it.

But he needed him to say it.

Thorin gestured loosely. “Now, after the battle… the Quest… what will you do? Do you make for the Shire?” The muscles in his face twitched. “Or will you… stay?”

Bilbo licked his lips. “Would that be… alright? Even when I…” He flopped his hand about. “Even when I’m. Hm. A dragon.”

“Of course,” Thorin said, so hard and fast that Bilbo jumped. Without missing a beat, Thorin reached out a bandaged hand and rested it atop Bilbo’s. “Bilbo, this is not a thing you can control – I would not judge you for suffering, like I would not judge you for being ill.”

Bilbo’s heart, which had soared when Thorin began, withered and cracked a little. “Oh,” he croaked. _That’s a good thing_ , he told himself. _He isn’t turning you away. That’s a good thing!_

But it didn’t feel like it. Not when Thorin called him _ill_ – like this was a thing someone had to be _blamed_ for, like it wasn’t just what he _was_.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking better of it.

If he was going to explain himself, it better be in the presence of everyone. There were _thirteen_ of them – imagine repeating the same speech thirteen times! And without notes!

“Kili!” he called.

It wasn’t long before Kili popped his head into the tent.

“Be a dear and gather the Company, will you?”

Kili flashed him a smile. “Yes, uncle!” And then he was gone.

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“I want to tell everyone,” said Bilbo, shrugging a bit, even as his heart sped up. “From the very beginning.”

*

To Bilbo’s great joy, none of the Company were hurt too badly during the battle. They all huddled around his bed, some grumbling a bit about the cramped situation, but when Bilbo shuffled up to the head of the bed and let Nori, Fili and Bifur – who’d hurt their legs – sit on it with him, they quieted down.

Out of everyone, only Ori, Oin and Dwalin seemed to have come out of it entirely unscathed. Balin had a bloody bandage covering half his face, Bombur and Bofur had an arm in casts, Kili’s shoulder needed support, Gloin’s torso was covered in bandages, and Dori was heavily preferring his right side.

Despite this, they all seemed to be in high spirits. Several of them gave Bilbo warm smiles – Balin perhaps the warmest of them all – and Bilbo couldn’t help but be grateful.

“How much did Ori and Bofur tell you?” Bilbo opened with, having learned that dwarves were not much for small talk.

A nervous shuffle crackled through them. Ori muttered, “barely anything at all.”

Bilbo blinked. “Really? How come?”

Bofur shrugged. “It felt like a thing you should tell them yourself… in the way you wanted.”

Their kindness, even after all this, was a balm to Bilbo’s wounds. It washed over him in warm waves, and he swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, trying hard not to cry. “Oh,” he said, “well, yes… thank you.” He cleared his throat, looking out over the crowd of dwarves he’d come to think of as family. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” They exchanged glances, then chuckled. “Yes, exactly. So… let me start at the beginning.”

Bilbo drew a deep breath and began his tale.

*

(“You were born to _slavery_?”

“Yes, all dragons were.”)

(“Wait, those scars were from _whips_?”

“Mahal, Kili, keep up.”

“Uncle Bilbo! You said it was a _farming accident_!”)

(“…she died?”

“She gave her life so I could keep mine. Yes.”

“What about your – your siblings?”

“…”

“Oh, _Bilbo_ …”)

(“Wait, so… what did you do during the Second Age?”

“Eh… sleep, mostly.”

“ _Sleep_!?”

“I mean, I woke up every now and then to eat and talk to the others, but – uhm. Yes. I slept.”

“And what about the Third Age, then?”

“I slept through the first half.”

“Mahal! Do you even need sleep anymore?”

“Look, dragons sleep a lot, okay! We’re big, we need to conserve energy!”

“Well, what about the rest?”

“Battles, mostly. Fire-drakes kept attacking our borders, and I defended my homeland.”)

(“You were chased off?”

“Somewhat, yes. I fell during an attack and had to flee – the cold-drakes weren’t much fond of me, I was too soft, not wild enough – I feared I wouldn’t survive, if I stayed.”

“And that’s when Gandalf found you?”

“Yes.”)

*

When Bilbo finished talking, the silence lay heavy over the group. They were leaning into each other, expressions contemplating – even Thorin seemed deep in thought.

It broke up when Kili stood. All eyes were on him.

Bilbo’s heart fluttered in his throat.

Kili crossed the room and drew Bilbo into a tight hug.

“I’m glad you’re with us today,” Kili muttered, and it was likely only Bilbo who heard. “Please don’t go.”

 _Oh_ , thought Bilbo, and it resonated so strongly within him that the tears fell over.

Ori joined the hug, then Bofur, then Bombur – and dwarf after dwarf, Bilbo lost count and couldn’t quite tell through the tears.

 _Oh_ , thought Bilbo again, and he was going to burst, he was going to break into song and grow wings and take off into the sky, _oh, oh, **oh.**_

Kili, _please don’t go_.

Well. He’d have to stay then. It wouldn’t do to disappoint Kili.

*

(“Oh, one more thing…”)

*

(“You _ATE_ the **_ARKENSTONE?_** ”

“It seemed like the best solution at the time!”

“ _Oh_ , Mahal…”)

*

The knowledge that he was accepted by his dwarves worked like a miracle cure. It wasn’t much more than a day or two later that Bilbo could be up and walking again – yes, it hurt, and yes, it was slow, but he was _walking._ And with several dwarves and elves willing to help, it didn’t take long before Bilbo had his hands full with helping around in whatever ways possible.

“Are you sure you should be doing so much?” asked Thorin, who was still being held down to his bed by several healers (he’d gotten chewed out badly when he’d gone to Bilbo’s tent).

“No,” said Bilbo, and laughed when Thorin sighed.

And then it didn’t take long before Bilbo was helping Thorin stagger across the room, then _watching_ him stagger across the room, then walking from tent to tent with him.

It wasn’t right. Bilbo was supposed to still be in great pain, and Thorin was supposed to still just barely be able to walk. It puzzled the healers – but Bilbo knew what it was, and he wasn’t about to tell.

That Thorin would also be affected by the dragon’s mate bond _was_ a slight surprise, mostly because Bilbo didn’t have enough information about one-sided mate bonds. When he realized it was happening, though, he was… _relieved_. There was something he could _give_ Thorin with this, some kind of _help_ he could offer in return for, well, everything.

When the elves asked him, he just shrugged.

For all intents and purposes, he had no idea what was going on.

*

It was Gandalf who called him to the first meeting. “Bilbo, dear boy,” he said, one of his secretive smiles curled at his mouth, “they’re waiting for you.”

“They’re _what_?” gasped Bilbo, who’d just sat down to start knitting a scarf.

“Waiting,” said Gandalf. “The meeting is about to begin.”

Bilbo jumped to his feet. “What meeting? About what? Between who?” As he asked this, he all but ran out of the tent, Gandalf picking up speed to keep up with him.

“A peace meeting,” Gandalf said calmly. “About what to do now, between the leaders of the groups gathered. Bilbo, where are you going?”

After running around like a headless chicken for a bit, Bilbo managed to calm himself enough to let Gandalf lead him to the tent where the supposed meeting was being held.

It was a fine mixture of elves, dwarves, and men that greeted him. Thranduil was accompanied by the Prince and another elf. Bard was there, along with another man and his eldest daughter, Sigrid. Dain sat by Thorin, who had Fili and Balin by his side.

They all looked up when Bilbo entered. “Bilbo,” Thorin greeted with a smile.

“Mithrandir,” said Thranduil drily. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Dain scoffed. “You were late yerself,” he grunted. “So shut yer mouth and let’s just begin.”

Bilbo settled in beside Thorin, fidgeting just the slightest bit at the attention. Gandalf sat by the table, as well, right beside Bard on one side and Thranduil on the other.

It was Gandalf who took the word first. “We are here to discuss your options for the upcoming winter. Let us begin with an assessment. Dain, how great are your losses?”

The sigh Dain gave was heartfelt. “At least a hundred and fifty, if not more. We ‘av more than fifty wounded, and I fear they won’t all last.”

Gandalf nodded. The elf Thranduil brought wrote something down on a parchment. “And Thorin?”

“No losses,” said Thorin, “though everyone is wounded, they will all live.”

“Bard?”

“Half our archers and a hundred men,” said Bard. “And several heavily wounded.” He cast a glance at Thranduil, his tone lilting slightly, “though the elves have been a massive help in healing.”

Thranduil smiled slightly. “Naturally.”

“And Thranduil?”

“Our losses are also in the hundreds,” Thranduil said, “though they are not as great as I had feared.”

Dain let out a gruff laugh. “Aye, and ye have a dragon to thank for that.”

Bilbo tensed as all eyes flickered to him.

“Dain,” Thorin grumbled.

“Nay, nay,” said Dain, waving a hand around like nothing mattered. “I don’t know about ye elves or men, but that laddie saved my life twenty times or so on that battlefield. Couldn’t hate him even if I wanted to.”

It eased the tension, somewhat. Bilbo let out a relieved breath.

“That is all well and good,” said Balin, “but winter is knocking on our door. We are a good four hundred dwarrow and two hundred men with nowhere to go.” He gave a nod at Dain. “You could of course return to the Iron Hills…”

Dain shook his head. “Not with so many wounded and tired.”

Balin nodded. “We do not have food to last the winter, and dragon sickness lies upon Erebor. We sorely lack food and shelter. What do we do?” He cast a long glance at the various people present.

Dain scratched at his beard. “I could send word to the Iron Hills,” he suggested. “Could gettema’ send some caravans with supplies over.”

“The same with the Blue Mountains,” Thorin said. “Driven by as few dwarrow as possible… they’ll have to stay overwinter in the mountain. The returning trip would not be safe during winter.”

Thranduil let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose we can send over supplies, if it is needed.”

Bilbo caught the surprise flicker across Thorin’s face. He schooled it fast, though. “That would be… greatly appreciated.”

“We could fish,” Sigrid suggested. “There are plenty in the lake. It won’t do much, but…”

Bilbo frowned. “Smaug fell into the lake, did she not?”

Bard nodded.

“Then there is no point. That water is poisoned, now, just like the lands. Hunting will be dangerous, and you might as well forget farms the first few years.”

Thranduil gave Bilbo a sharp look. “Smaug poisoned the land?”

“Yes. It will remain hostile for years. Traces might linger for decades.” Bilbo sighed and shook his head. “Unless you find anyone willing to heal the lands, you must rely on trade until then.”

“The lands can be healed?” Fili asked, surprised. “By who? Wizards?”

“Oh, well,” said Bilbo, and frowned. “Hobbits could.”

“Children of the Green Lady,” Gandalf hummed. “Is that why the Shire is so bountiful?”

Bilbo nodded. “Decades of hobbitish influence does that to the Earth.”

Glances were exchanged across the table. “And would hobbits be willing to help?” Bard tentatively asked.

Opening his mouth, Bilbo was about to deny.

Then he closed it again and thought about it.

There were thousands of hobbits in the Shire, and not even a quarter of them were of the Baggins branch… and Tooks were not the only branches that were adventurous or wild. Besides, the Shire was starting to get overpopulated and work was scarce – Bilbo had heard people mention turning their eyes otherwhere, with thoughts of moving.

Tentatively, Bilbo said, “maybe. If they are asked correctly.”

“Well then,” said Balin warmly, “it’s a good thing we have someone to ask them.” The look he gave Bilbo was so pointed it was impossible to misinterpret.

“Ah,” said Bilbo. “Yes – yes, I – I could do that.”

He dove back into thought. Who would he ask? When would he ask them, and where? How would he ask them, under what circumstances – how many would he ask for, and who would he suggest? Where would there be space for smials, and where would there be farms? Would this new, potential hobbit village flank Dale, or would it be on the other side? Would she surround Erebor –

“When is the ideal time to depart to ask?” Thorin asked.

“Hm.” Bilbo bit his lip and frowned. “Well… I would suggest now, at the cusp of winter. It will take time to travel, to inform the Thain and Mayors, to pick out hobbits willing to go… for them to pack up, much less buy or make gear necessary for the trip… and so on. Leaving now would mean they’d be ready to depart at the beginning of spring, which might yield decent harvest already the coming fall. But…”

“But you’re not fit to travel,” Thorin injected.

“I have to agree with you there,” Bilbo sighed. He didn’t mention that he had no wish to leave Thorin here, hurt, with no promise of survival. “And neither are anyone else… and we would need several dwarven guards for protection.”

Bard leaned forward. “Then when do you suggest departure, Master Dragon?”

“Are you allergic to my name?” asked Bilbo drily. Bard flushed a little. “I would suggest leaving as early this spring as possible. The harvest might be small, but it will be there, and the earth fresh for seeding after winter.”

“Then that is settled,” Balin said loudly. “May I suggest we speak of this at a later time, when more pressing matters have been solved?”

Nodding, Bilbo fell into silence.

“So there’s caravans from the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills,” Bard stated, rubbing at his chin.

“And supplies from Greenwood,” Thranduil added rather hastily.

“We’ll make do until then,” Dain said. “But what about shelter?”

Fili spoke up. “There’s plenty of space in the Mountain?”

Balin huffed. “Yes, if only she wasn’t drowning in dust and illness!”

Before the table could erupt into grumbling and discussions, Gandalf loudly declared, “Bilbo and I will fix that.”

“You can do that?” Thranduil asked.

“Not on my own,” Gandalf said, “but with Bilbo’s help… we can lessen the effect. Much is solved if Smaug’s presence is removed.”

Dain raised his eyebrows. “And how exactly do ye plan to do _that_?”

Gandalf’s gaze flickered to Bilbo. Bilbo sighed. “By claiming her territory as mine. My presence will override hers, and lest I keep claiming it, it will fade in less than a year.”

Thranduil hummed, leaning back in his chair. “So you will replace one illness with another.”

“No,” Bilbo grunted. “First of all, it’s a presence, not an illness. Secondly, Smaug was a fire-drake, offensive and greedy. Her presence brought on greed and possessiveness. I, however, am a _mist-drake_ – quite rare, let me tell you – and I’m rather defensive myself. A presence born from my wings will be weak, much weaker than Smaug’s, and only bring on a wish for peace and protectiveness.” He shrugged a little. “Worst case is that some will be more tired than usual due to a wish for sleep – ” Here Fili snorted; Balin wacked him over the head. “ – but nothing quite like Smaug.”

“We’ll do it,” said Thorin immediately. He glanced at Bilbo, then turned defiantly to the rest of the gathering. “We will.”

*

And so it came to that Bilbo went marching right back into Erebor’s empty halls, Gandalf by his side. They trailed into the darkness, their path lit only by Gandalf’s staff and Bilbo’s good sight.

Bilbo tilted his head back – gazing up at the mighty archways that made up the roof of Erebor’s entrance hall. They were large and vast, and even his eyes couldn’t see to the very top. Darkness swallowed it all. There seemed to be colours inlaid into the rock he could see, and carvings, of some kind.

It really was fair and pretty. He wished he could’ve seen it during its glory days.

 _Ah, but you yet might_ , a small, small part of him whispered.

Bilbo still didn’t quite believe he would be allowed to stay.

They approached the treasure chamber in silence. Bilbo sighed. “And I am certain you expect me to change once again, right after I healed, hm?”

“Ah,” said Gandalf, and his smile was apologetic. “I have forgotten to mention, then – I have handed Oin the secret to making the potion. Together we made some batches, and he has promised to keep you supplied.”

Bilbo blinked, then exclaimed, “what marvelous news! Say, what is this potion called? You have never departed with a name.”

“It is of my own creation,” Gandalf admitted. “It never crossed my mind to name it.”

“Hm.” Bilbo tapped his lips. “How about potion Tal Al? If you are open for suggestions, of course.”

Gandalf gave him a peculiar look. “It matters little to me. But tell me, what does it mean?”

“Potion of heat,” Bilbo said. “In the tongue of dragons, that is. Remind me to keep the dwarves away from it – Kili could try to drink it just for the sake of it, I believe, and he would not be much pleased.”

“Oh?” said Gandalf, an amused smile hiding behind his beard.

“It’s like drinking lava, Gandalf, did you never test it?” Bilbo asked, raising his eyebrows in mock shock.

Gandalf mumbled something incomprehensible, then hurried to turn away. “Come on, then, the treasure is waiting,” he threw over his shoulder.

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh as he followed the wizard into the vast chambers of Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there!!
> 
> Thank you all so very much for the nice comments <3 <3 <3 !!!


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Gandalf left. It was decided that the dwarves of the Iron Hills were to stay in Erebor, as would the Company, and when the caravans from Ered Luin arrived, so would they (everyone hoped desperately they would clear out enough of Erebor before then). The men of Lake Town sent their children and wounded to stay in Erebor over the winter, while everyone who was without child or wounded to care for began reconstruction of Dale.

The elves would return to Mirkwood as soon as possible, though Thranduil – in an incredibly generous moment – allowed a handful of their healers remain, to help the dwarves and men through the worst of their disease and illness. Once their service was no longer needed, they would return to the woods, as well.

Bilbo was staying, thank you very much, and make no mistake about it.

Once they were certain who would be where at what time, another meeting was called.

This time, it was Balin who found Bilbo. “Laddie, what in the Maker’s name are you doing?”

Bilbo, who was working on socks – socks! Now that was a thing he had never tried his hand at before – for the mannish children, looked up from his innocent work. “Ah… knitting?”

Balin shook his head, amused. “No time for that. The meeting is about to begin.”

“What?” cried Bilbo, and shot to his feet. “Oh, not again!”

*

Bilbo did not speak a single time, nor was he called upon. He simply had nothing of importance to take note of – especially not when the topic at hand was solely a matter between dwarves. Namely, the restoration of Erebor. They discussed where and when, who and what, which halls and quarters and hallways, what rooms and chambers and corridors and so on. Where they would begin, how they would do it, who would be in charge of what teams.

It wasn’t boring, far from it, but Bilbo had absolutely nothing to say. The gathered were Thorin, Fili, Balin, Dwalin, Oin and Dain. Dwalin and Oin’s presence were due to their knowledge of Erebor before Smaug came – the others were there due to roles of importance.

(Bilbo made a mental note to ask why Fili was present, but not Kili.)

Bilbo had no clue why he was there. He did not know Erebor pre-dragon, nor did he have any particular power, other than being a shapeshifter (and that was strange, calling himself that. But Gandalf had said it was true, now that the anchor was part of himself). The last meeting he could understand, for it’d been a gathering of dwarves, men, elves, _and_ a wizard. Bilbo had not stuck out all that much.

But now?

He waited until after the meeting concluded before he commented on it. “I don’t understand why I’m part of these meetings,” he grumbled to Balin, barely keeping up with his quick stride through the camp. “I’m just… Bilbo.”

Balin gave him a raised eyebrow. “Well, you are the King’s One.”

Bilbo’s world screeched to a halt. He froze, eyes wide. “What?” he breathed.

Balin stopped, too. He frowned. “Hum, yes – Thorin _has_ said you aren’t interested, but until you make a public announcement you’ll still be…”

“Wait, wait, _wait_!” Bilbo cried, waving his hands around wildly. His heart had picked up to such speeds he could barely breathe. “I’m _what_? I’m _who’s what_?”

“Thorin’s One,” said Balin slowly. Realization dawned. “Lad, didn’t you _know_?”

Heaving after breath, Bilbo buried his hands in his curls, grasping tightly. “I knew about Ones! But I – Thorin is – I’m Thorin’s – ”

“You are Thorin’s One, yes,” said Balin. “It’s plain for most to see… he said you didn’t…?”

The world was unfolding in a myriad of colours right before his eyes.

Bilbo drew a deep, rattling breath. And then he shrieked, “ _THORIN OAKENSHIELD!_ ”

Balin stared with huge, round eyes. “I think you should sit down,” he said weakly.

“I think _not_ ,” said Bilbo through clenched teeth. He spun around. “Where is he? Where is that _big, great **oaf –**_ ”

Thorin appeared around the corner. “Something wrong?” he asked. He spotted Bilbo’s furious scowl. “Uh-oh.”

Bilbo marched up to him and glared as fiercely as he could. “Thorin,” he said, in the tone he ever only used on Lobelia when he wanted her out of his house, “Balin tells me I am your One. Is this true?”

Thorin nearly went cross-eyed trying to look at him. He swallowed. “Uhm. Yes?”

Bilbo gritted, “why. Did you not. _Tell me?_ ”

A moment’s pause, and then all colour drained from Thorin’s face. His hands came up to rest on Bilbo’s shoulders, light, light, much lighter than it should be. “I thought you knew,” he croaked. “I thought you knew, when in Lake Town you did not…”

“And it did not cross your mind to ask!” Bilbo said shrilly, slapping a palm against Thorin’s shoulder. “Oh, you stupid, stubborn dwarf! How was I to know?” Thorin opened his mouth. “No! Don’t answer that!” Bilbo snapped. Thorin closed his mouth. “Say instead how _they_ know!”

“They?” asked Thorin, brows furrowed.

Bilbo scoffed, then shouted, “Balin! How does Balin know! Did you tell him, but not me?”

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin rushed, “no, no, I have not told anyone!”

He was snapping for breath. “Then how does he know? How does – ”

A hand – not feathery light like Thorin’s, but hearty and sturdy like a dwarf’s should be – landed on his shoulder. “Deep breaths, laddie,” said Balin, his deep voice rumbling. “Come. We have much to discuss, it seems.”

“Indeed,” said Thorin numbly, giving Bilbo wide glances and worried looks.

They made for the tent Balin had taken up residence in. It was not Balin’s alone, of course – he shared it with a few others of the Company. Only Ori and Dwalin was there when they entered, though, and with a kind look Balin got them both out with haste.

Gently, he sat both Bilbo and Thorin down on one of the beds.

“To answer your first question,” said Balin. “Thorin has not told me; I asked him.” He shook his head. “How you didn’t realize, I have no clue. He looks to you with such longing some dwarrow find it disconcerting.”

Bilbo squinted at Thorin. Longing, him?

His lips parted for a soft gasp.

Then it _was_ more than a fleeting interest… and in Mirkwood, and the kiss in Lake Town, and the first time, when they slept together, and Thorin’s kiss, and –

And it was the universe expanding in his breast and it was beauty and wonder and flying and light in the darkness and –

Bilbo could’ve crowed in joy. It was real, it was real, he was real! It had been real, all of it real, all, every moment!

“I thought you knew,” said Thorin very, very meekly.

“I did not,” Bilbo said, and swallowed down his smile, swallowed it, swallowed it, and swallowed it again. “But, Balin, you said – ” He broke off, falling into a scowl. “Oh, befuddle you stubborn, foolish dwarves! Will someone explain to me, once and for all, what all this means?”

Thorin looked too dazed to speak. Balin, however, chuckled. “Of course, Bilbo. Of course. Hm, hum. You are the King’s One, which, unless either of you cast the other aside – which neither have done – means you have a right to knowledge of… well, current affairs.”

Bilbo leaned back with a soft, _“oh._ ”

“Indeed,” said Balin kindly. “That’s why your presence has been wanted.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, and sniffed as he straightened once again. “Thank you for _finally_ telling me. I’ve been wondering.”

“That brings me to my next point,” Balin continued. His expression became softer, more gentle. “The people speak, Thorin.”

Thorin shook the daze off him like a wet dog. “What say they?” he asked, suddenly the complete picture of royalty.

Balin sighed. “They wonder why no decisions have been made, between you two. You have not rejected each other, yet there have been no announcements of anything else to come. They are confused and doubting the sincerity of Bilbo.”

“Why, I never!” Bilbo huffed. Doubting him! After all he’d done?

With another worried glance at Bilbo, Thorin asked, “what would you suggest, gamil bâhel?”

“Limited options, ‘m afraid,” Balin said. “It’s unwise to continue as it is… we need the dwarrow of the Iron Hills to begin restorations, and to survive the winter. Either Bilbo must reject Thorin – a rejection from Thorin would not be believed – or you begin a courtship.” Casting Bilbo an apologetic look, Balin continued, “I would, however, suggest battle-marriage.”

Thorin drew a deep breath.

“Had what you said been true, Thorin, I would never suggest this,” said Balin, gaze flickering between them. “But when you said Bilbo was not interested, neither of you had the full picture.” He finally landed on Bilbo. “And I dare-say it might be… different, now.”

“Wait, wait,” said Bilbo, raising his arms. “You _just_ said you would explain! What is this – this battle marriage? What does a courtship mean? Is this my decision? Goodness!”

“Peace, Bilbo,” said Balin gently. “I will explain.”

“No,” Thorin croaked. Both Bilbo and Balin looked at him in surprise. “No, Balin. _I_ will tell him. I have neglected my duties for far too long.” With a short puff of a breath, Thorin turned sideways in the bed, facing Bilbo.

Bilbo shifted to mirror him without a moment’s thought.

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, and he was as solemn and sorrowful as always, though for once there was no anger to it – only a sort of tender softness that made Bilbo’s heart ache. “Yes, this is your choice. This will always be your choice, I would never – I would not force you to do a single thing. Not now, not ever, I swear.”

“Ah… alright,” said Bilbo, cheeks heating with blood.

“What Balin is saying…” Thorin broke off, swallowed thickly. Tried again. “What Balin is _saying_ is that the dwarrow of the Iron Hills, and likely also later Ered Luin, are… confused. They don’t understand the – the bond we have – the way we’ve chosen to shape it.”

_The bond we have._

Bilbo swallowed thickly, hoping to dear Yavanna the joy was not too visible on his face.

Thorin reached out and took his hand, his broad fingers swallowing Bilbo’s slender. “Dwarrow are particular in this,” he said, sounding almost _apologetic_. “When a One is found, it’s… they stick together, unless it really does not work. Even then, they will try.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, because if he didn’t keep quiet he thought he might burst, “then what does Balin suggest?”

“A public rejection,” Thorin said, and he said it with the tone of someone trying desperately to hide their battle wounds.

Bilbo’s heart nearly shattered at the thought.

“It would have to come from you,” Thorin continued. “Recognizing the path Mahal laid out for… for us, and refusing to wander it. It’s rarely done, but they will understand.” Gentler, Thorin said, “it would save you much scorn, and would also be permanent, so you needn’t worry.”

Bilbo twisted his hand to grasp Thorin’s, squeezing hard. “And,” he said, “and the other? Option?”

Thorin gave their hands a startled look. Then he exhaled. “Ah. A battle-marriage… it’s used when dwarrow find their Ones in hasty situations and must bond with speed. It allows for a later courtship and wedding but is no less valid.”

“I see,” said Bilbo meekly.

Various thoughts and ideas began to spin in his head.

“And, hm,” he said, wetting his lips. “What would you want?”

Thorin spared a moment to think. “Whatever you desire is my desire, Bilbo.”

Giving a frustrated grunt, Bilbo said, “but what would _you_ choose? Be honest with me or chop off my head!” The sound of Balin’s chuckles went to the back of Bilbo’s mind, unregistered.

“If I could, I… I would court you properly and lavish you in gifts worthy of being born by you. None of these choices are ideal, to me,” Thorin said softly. And soft it was, dark and rumbling like distant thunder. It crackled down Bilbo’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

(Dragons were possessive, protective, and selfish. All of those were true.)

( _Selfish._ )

Bilbo inclined his head, glancing over at Balin, who was watching them with a fond smile. “And if I… if I go through with this battle-marriage… what would my duties be?” He looked back at Thorin, saying, “you know this already, I am no leader, and have no desire to do so… I’m not fit to be a – married to a king.”

Thorin shook his head. “No, Bilbo – you would be Merlaleluzabadâl, the King’s One.”

“What does that _entail_?” Bilbo asked.

“That you may choose freely how to live,” said Thorin. “You need no responsibilities lest you wish for them – and have all the respect the One of a king should have.” He gave a dry little smile. “It’s a wonder for any to find their One, and we would like to keep our rulers on the throne… there are many stories of rulers retreating from the public to live with their more peaceful Ones.”

Bilbo blinked, then closed his eyes, exhaling. “My,” he muttered. “No such pesky business as meetings or making decisions or such?”

“Not unless you want it,” said Thorin gently. There was something like _hope_ aglow in his face.

Balin cleared his throat. “If that is what you wish, lad, you must choose between two paths. Thorin here, when crowned, will be ‘His Royal Majesty’. If _I_ were to take up the mantle, I would be ‘His Diplomatic Majesty’.”

Bilbo drew a bit away from Thorin to give Balin a surprised look. “There is a difference?”

“Oh, aye. Royals sit with the public and make the decisions.” Balin grinned. “The Diplomats keep the peace and are tasked with keeping the Royals level-headed. Advisors, if you will.”

“Ha!” said Bilbo, and couldn’t keep back the grin. “Heaven knows you hard-headed dwarves need it! Diplomatic it is.”

Balin nodded. “Khalûn Merlaleluzabadâl, then.”

“Wait,” Thorin implored. “Do not be hasty! No choice has been made.”

Bilbo smiled dimly. “Oh, my daft husband-to-be. I made my choice the moment I knew I had one.”

Thorin went still.

Balin burst out laughing.

*

Bilbo was a knot of tight, tight, tight emotions as he worked.

So he was Thorin’s One. The one Mahal had pointed out for him, the one and only he could ever love. ‘Carved from the same vein,’ as the dwarves said, though Bilbo had not been carved. And Thorin was Bilbo’s mate, though he didn’t know it – Bilbo would have to tell him, sometime.

Not in his wildest dreams had Bilbo dreamt of _marrying_ the stubborn lump that was Thorin Oakenshield. Nay, he’d barely let himself dream of holding his _hand_ , much less share in his affections. Now that the option stood square before him, he found it a _highly_ alluring concept.

He wanted to marry Thorin. He did.

And he was so incredibly selfish to do so, here, without proper preparations, without a single regard for hobbitish customs, and without time to think of it. He simply heard the promise of staying with Thorin for the unforeseeable future and he leapt at the chance.

Oh, curse and befuddle it, he’d stay with that dwarf ‘til he died! For him he’d traveled half the earth and three whole ages! Mahal and Yavanna, what he wouldn’t do for him.

That was draconic love for you, he thought, and pricked himself on his needle.

A marriage to Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo, King Consort of Erebor (or so Balin had explained they usually translated the title Bilbo was to have), dragon shapeshifter and time traveler. A fine list of titles that brought him both joy and sorrow in equal bounds.

No wonder he was conflicted even about what foot to put in what trouser hole!

He bore a courting braid in his hair, and it was weird and clunky and out of place – mostly due to the rather short length of it, compared to a dwarf’s. In return, Dori – who was a master at braids, Ori proudly declared – painstakingly guided Bilbo through the process, showing the steps on a grumbling Nori as Bilbo worked on Thorin.

As they were of the royal line – and Bilbo scoffed at the thought; ‘of the royal line’, as though Thorin wasn’t their very King – and the situation was not all that very dire, they would exchange a single courting gift. Once they’d been exchanged, that was it. They would be married.

Bilbo’s hands trembled only slightly as he tightened off the seam he was working on. It was a large project, and hard to finish due to a lack of measurements, but he was stubbornly going on. The cloth he had begged off the elves, and the string from Ori.

It was to become a cloak, of sorts – a combination of Bilbo’s skills, sewn together in Durin blue (or so Balin had said) with silver-blue forget-me-not’s embroidered along collar, hem, and sleeves. The buttons were covered in very fine, knitted yarn, and the inside of cuffs and collar line would be isolated with crocheted wool.

Nobody had stated it, but Bilbo was not stupid: his gift for Thorin now would dictate how the majority of the present dwarves perceived him – and if he was to be a diplomat of dwarven kind, the least he could do was try his damnest to be accepted.

He thought Thorin might like it.

Sighing, he held the far-from-finished cloak up before him.

He dearly hoped it would fit.

*

Bilbo wished for Gandalf often the upcoming days. Surrounded by dwarves and elves and men, he longed for a friend who’d give an outsider’s perspective – he wished for someone to talk to, someone who would understand, or at least try to. Not only for an honest opinion on the cloak he was making (the Company all assured him it looked fine, but it was hasty and stuttered from all of them, even Dwalin and Nori), but for an opinion on _everything_ – his choices, what he was doing, and so on.

In the end it was Bard the Dragonslayer that became Bilbo’s help. Theirs was a chance meeting, with Bard looking for Thranduil and Bilbo about to leave the tent. “Ah, my apologies,” Bilbo blubbered, backing off with ease.

“No, no,” said Bard, raising a hand. “Nothing to fret about.” He gave Bilbo a once-over, then a kind smile. “You look tired, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Bilbo chuckled, rubbing at his neck. “Yes, well, I am. I’ve been working on Thorin’s courting gift for a few hours now… I can’t seem to get past a tricky seam.”

Understanding flickered in Bard’s eyes. “Then the rumours are true?”

Bilbo blinked. “Rumours?”

Bard inclined his head. “That you are to wed the dwarven king.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like a fantasy tale,” Bilbo grumbled. “But, yes. I am.”

“An interesting duo,” Bard allowed, with a small, amused smile. “How do you feel about all this?”

“Ah… it’s alright. I’m ecstatic it happened, just… maybe not under these circumstances.”

Oh, and _there it was_. What a relief to say it out loud and have the words and feelings settle into something that made sense without all these conflicting thoughts and emotions and what-not’s.

“I understand,” said Bard warmly. It was strange to see this haughty man look to him with such kindness. “Much of the same is happening with me and my family, as well.” A dim light came over his expression. “So much suffering…”

Bilbo made a soft, comforting sound. Then a thought struck him. “Say, are you busy?”

Bard raised an eyebrow, the dim light fading. “Not direly, no. How come?”

“Well, see, I am making this gift for Thorin, and none of the accursed dwarves will give me an honest opinion of it. Would you be so kind as to take a look?”

“I’m no seamstress, but I shall tell you what I can either way,” said Bard, with an amused grin. “Where is this gift of yours?”

Bilbo dragged Bard into the tent by his sleeve. “Here, see – it’s a cloak, or supposed to be.”

“Ah!” Bard exclaimed. With gentle hands he picked up the half-way finished cloak, brushing his fingers across the embroidered flowers. “Fine work, Master Baggins.” He cast Bilbo a teasing look. “Or should I say, Your Majesty?”

“Ah, hum,” said Bilbo, and looked aside. “We settled on, uhm… I can’t quite pronounce it, but it’s something like, _maglakhûnel_ , I think. It means, ‘he who is kindness of all kindness’… they translate it to ‘Your Gentleness’.”

“Your Gentleness,” said Bard, eyebrows flying upward in surprise. “Now that is a title I have not heard before, yet one that fits you excellently.”

Bilbo grumbled, “I think it too posh.”

Bard laughed. “You would, wouldn’t you?” He turned his gaze back to the cloak. “And yet you create such fine clothes as this.”

“ _Honest_ opinion,” Bilbo reminded him. “Surely there must be flaws.”

“Flaws can be found in anything, Your Gentleness,” said Bard, and raised the cloth to inspect it more closely. “Your stitches are very fine and small, but some are placed in odd places.” He put down the cloak on the desk Bilbo had bullied the elves into finding for him. “See, here? Would this be the shoulder?”

Bilbo leaned in close. “Oh, yes.”

“It wouldn’t fit well on a man,” Bard said, “and I suspect, not on a dwarf, either. We have much broader shoulders, and our muscles shift differently.”

“Oh, blast it!” Bilbo exclaimed. “You’re right, of course, thank you. I would never have thought of it.”

“A pleasure to be of help,” Bard said with a nod. “Have you considered borrowing a dwarven cloak for reference?”

“And blast it again,” Bilbo grumbled. “That’s what I get for not thinking with my head! Thank you, King Bard, it’s much appreciated.”

Bard shuffled. “I’m not…”

Bilbo patted his hand, understanding what he dared not say. “You and me both, friend.”

*

Bilbo was in Balin’s tent receiving an impromptu lesson on dwarven clothing styles versus Ereborian clothing styles. It was interesting, and he was listening with rapt interest, glancing away only every now and then to listen to Ori’s inputs.

“A thing of Ereborian origin is the Ravenmark, traditionally worn by our Ravenspeakers – who work primarily with the ravens of Erebor, translating, caring for them, and teaching their young,” Balin was explaining, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “It’s generally recognized for the pattern along hems, sleeves, and collars – a row of silver eggs against a dark blue background.”

Something in Bilbo’s brain snapped together. He shot up with a gasp. “The egg!” he cried.

Balin jumped. “What?”

Ori, who was also in the tent, let out a gasp far shriller than Bilbo’s. “ _THE EGG!”_ he echoed.

Balin glanced between them frantically. “The _what_?” he asked, frustration evident in both his tone and the hard set of his brows.

Bilbo and Ori shared a look. “Bofur,” said Ori.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, and nodded.

“And everyone else,” they said in unison.

Ori raced out of the tent so fast he was naught but a blur, and then Balin grasped Bilbo by the shoulder. “Lad, what’s – ”

“I’ll tell you,” said Bilbo, and he was pale, he could feel it, his lips numbing. “I’ll tell you when the others get here.”

Just like last time Bilbo had called, it did not take long before the confused or puzzled faces of the Company began trickling into the tent. “Well, lad?” asked Gloin, slapping Bilbo’s back heartily. “You got more secrets up yer sleeve, eh?”

Nori, who’d settled beside Gloin on one of the beds, harrumphed. “You’ll put us all in an early grave,” he half-heartedly complained, “just you wait and see.”

Bilbo barely managed a smile. “Ah, well… not one you don’t deserve, if that’s the case.”

Thorin was the last to enter, following directly in the wake of a steel-faced Ori. “What is it?” Thorin asked, making a beeline for Bilbo, expression folded into one of worry. “What’s happened?”

“Everyone sit down,” Bilbo sighed, standing on shaking legs. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

With some worried and confused grumbling, the few dwarves that’d been standing around, sat. With thirteen pairs of eyes turned to him, Bilbo drew a deep breath.

“Smaug was female,” he began. “And – while we were all trying to survive in there – Bofur, Ori and I… well, we, uhm.” He trailed off, glancing at Bofur.

“There’s an egg,” Bofur croaked. “In the treasure chamber. Hidden. Smaug’s.”

The dwarves exploded into sound. Exclamations of disbelief, anger, confusion – uncertainty.

It was Balin who shouted, “ _SILENCE!_ ”

The tent fell into a hush. Balin turned to Bilbo with a kind expression; kinder than Bilbo expected. “Well, Your Gentleness, you are the local dragon expert. What should we do?”

Oh, bless Balin, bless him, bless him, _bless him_. Bilbo swallowed thickly. “Well,” he tried. “Well… you are – I think you would understand this – but… imagine that you could raise a child. After decades – centuries – of famine, suffering, and death. You could raise this child free of shackles and pain.” He wet his lips, raising his head defiantly. “Would you?”

When there was no immediate response, Ori snapped, “oh, for Mahal’s sake, you’ve accepted one dragon already! What’s one more?”

“Imagine,” Bofur continued, “what a guard-dog to have! And if Bilbo raises it… well, look at him!” They all turned to look at Bilbo, who shifted uncomfortably beneath the attention. “Any child o’ his would turn out mighty fine, I’m sure.”

Balin turned to Thorin, raising a brow.

Thorin’s gaze flickered from Balin to Bilbo. “Do you want this, ghivash?” he asked quietly, gaze calculating, but warm.

Bilbo managed, “I would be quite cross with you if you hindered me, yes.”

“Then I ask as Balin,” Thorin said. “What should we do?”

*

It was agreed upon that the forges would be started up as soon as possibly – both to heat the mountain, to help make tools for the cleaning process, and to keep the unhatched dragon chick alive. When the dwarves had realized that heat was essential, especially as the little one was a fire-drake, they panicked. It wasn’t before Bilbo shrilly reassured them that dragon mothers could be gone for months on end without the egg being too horribly damaged.

It would be fine to wait until they were actually _ready_.

“But when does it _hatch_?” asked Dori, wringing his hands nervously.

Bilbo shrugged a little. “Sometimes eggs take years to hatch, and I don’t know how long it’s been since it was laid. If I get another look at it, I could be able to tell you more… I was a bit preoccupied at the time.”

Nori muttered into Bilbo’s ear, “mother Dori. That dragon won’t know what hit it.”

*

Thorin and Bilbo still slept in different tents, for Propriety Sake, as Balin put it. Bilbo had almost been able to _taste_ the capital letters. That didn’t mean they didn’t spend time together during the day, though – there were lessons, and explanations, and meetings. And in-between those, there were calm moments to themselves, shared in either Bilbo or Thorin’s tent.

Such as today, when they were both in Bilbo’s tent signing documents (Bilbo’s tent had turned into a sort of office for several of the Company). Why on Earth there was need for document signing before they could begin to restore Erebor, Bilbo had no idea – but he’d seen both Thranduil and Bard’s handwriting in the pile of paper Thorin was currently working his way through, so he supposed there might be other things in there, as well.

Bilbo, for his part, was beginning to make loose plans about potential hobbit immigration, complete with lists of needed items and such. In-between, he was working on the poem Thorin had seen glimpses of. He wanted it finished, damn it all, if he so had to bleed to see it done.

At one point, Thorin sighed and leaned back. “I think if I read another word my eyes will fall out,” he grumbled, stretching with a grunt.

Bilbo traced the curve of his chest and belly with longing eyes before he caught himself and snapped back to attention. “Oh, will they, now?”

“Yes,” said Thorin, with great certainty. He turned in the chair to face Bilbo. “How goes id-marali?”

Marali, a courting gift. Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t supposed to unveil a gift before its completion.”

“Oh, come now,” Thorin said, and his easy expression gave way for a frown. “I just wanted to make sure you’ll be ready for the – the…”

Bilbo softened. They did tend to skirt past this particular topic, for all that they should probably discuss it in depth. “The wedding?” he asked quietly.

Thorin slumped over. “Yes,” he sighed. “That.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bilbo said. Then, when Thorin still looked uncertain, he chewed on his lip. Yes, he might be a selfish twit, but he would never forgive himself if he chained Thorin down ‘til the day of his death. “Thorin… are you sure about this?”

Raising his head, Thorin met Bilbo’s gaze, his eyes soft. “Are _you_ sure about this?”

“Thorin.” Bilbo slid out of his chair and crossed the room, kneeling before Thorin to give him a proper serious look. “ _You_ are marrying below your class. You are the _King_. I am not a dwarf – I am not royalty. I’m a _dragon_ , Thorin, and I’ve somehow convinced the Company to take in _another one_. People aren’t going to take that lightly, you know? This isn’t…” He swallowed, shook his head – continued to steadfast keep their gazes locked. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“But,” Thorin croaked, “but you are my _One_.”

“And you are my mate,” Bilbo said quietly. “Dragons only take one love, did you know that?” He reached out and brushed his fingers across Thorin’s cheek, marvelling at the fact that he _could_ , at the fact that Thorin looked to him and saw something worth it. “We might have different words for it, but…” Bilbo drew a deep breath. “I love you, Thorin Oakenshield, and I’ve done so since before I knew your name. For what reason would I leave?”

Thorin’s eyes glistened. “Oh,” he breathed. “Bilbo, I – ”

“So I ask you again,” Bilbo interrupted, “are you sure about this? _All_ of this. The egg, me, raising a dragon – are you sure?”

Thorin’s fingers tangled with Bilbo’s. He searched Bilbo’s gaze for a few trembling seconds. Then he whispered, “I love you, too.”

Offering a weak smile, Bilbo teased, “that wasn’t an answer.”

“Yes,” Thorin said, “yes, I’m sure, _yes_. I wouldn’t have you any other way, Bilbo, you – with your – yes. Yes, I’m _sure._ ”

“Then I am, too,” Bilbo said. “Okay? We’ll see this through.” He stood, smiling. “And the gift is nearly done, you worrier, I have a few days yet.”

*

And so the day of the wedding came with much more pomp than you’d think from a ‘battle-wedding.’ Then again, this was a peculiar situation, and liberties could be taken. It wasn’t anything big or show-off-y, to hobbit standards – a gathering of the Company and Dain, along with Bard and Thranduil in the back (Thranduil was watching with a raised eyebrow; he hadn’t been invited), standing in Balin’s tent, which had been cleared out to make space.

Balin, who was head of the ceremony, cleared his throat. “Present id-marali.”

Bilbo, as the one of lowest social rank, went first. He nervously handed the package over – Thorin’s fingers brushed past his as he accepted it.

“It’s, uhm,” said Bilbo, gesturing at the string keeping it all together, “you just – pull there. Yes. Exactly.”

The cloth fell aside to reveal the finished cloak – one of Bilbo’s best makes in decades, a wonderful combination of elvish cloth, mannish yarn, dwarven colours and hobbit make. It was symbolic more than anything else, with little respect for dwarven clothing tradition (though Bilbo had tried his best to incorporate it after the lessons with Balin), but proper, and made to endure.

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Thorin gasped, holding the cloak up before him to look at it properly. “You made this?”

“No, I bought it,” said Bilbo drily. “Yes, I made it.”

“Do you accept, Thorin son of Thrain?” Balin asked. There was a twinkle in his eye, and a smile hidden in his beard.

“I do,” said Thorin immediately.

“Then present your marali.”

Thorin folded the cloak neatly and put it aside, then reached into one of his pockets. Out from it, he brought a box – roughly the size of his fist, but no bigger. He handed it over to Bilbo as though it was the finest gem in the world.

Swallowing, Bilbo slid his fingers into the crack between box and lid.

It was a sunflower. Metal twisted and bent into fine, fine patterns, displaying the leaves, the petals, the seeds in the heart.

“Where,” Bilbo croaked, and glanced up at Thorin with blurry vision, “where in Yavanna’s name did you find a _forge_?”

Thorin smiled a helpless little smile. “We’re _dwarrow_ , Bilbo, we bring them with us to war. Pick it up.”

Bilbo did, and found it was a hair-clasp. Beneath it were matching decorative pieces for his ears.

“Oh, Thorin,” he muttered, pressing his fingers against a spiraling one detailing the growth of a sunflower from seed to full bloom. “This is – this is beautiful.”

“Do you accept, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire?” Balin asked.

This was it. This was the moment.

(Bilbo had never thought he would enter an arranged marriage, much less one that didn’t _feel_ like one.)

“I do.”

(Oh, well. There’s a first for everything.)

Balin gently said, “then with all of Mahal’s might, I declare you wed. You may now do the braids.”

Their marriage beads were impersonal things – one of wood for Bilbo, and one of iron for Thorin, inscribed with the rune of each other on each. Thorin had bemoaned it, but wistfully agreed with Balin that this was not the place nor time to be bothered by such details.

Thorin, with the higher social status, was the one to do the braiding first. He’d had to practice a bit beforehand, due to the different texture of Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo was glad to feel he was yanking less at it now.

Afterwards, it was Bilbo’s turn. He also had needed to practice, but he had done so on Fili, who had the feel of Thorin’s hair, if not the colour.

When the braids were in place, Bilbo drew back.

Thorin, his husband, stared at him with joy.

Thorin, his husband.

And with the future ahead, Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s collar and drew him into a blazing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are!! The official ending! Wow, what a ride this has been! Thank you ALL so much for the support, love, and help! Every kudos and comment made the struggle worth it! The attention this story got was so much greater than what I expected it to get, and yet - here we are!
> 
> So, a few things. There are four scrapped chapters, HOWEVER they're based on something very simple: Bilbo is convinced Thorin wants to marry him BECAUSE he's his One. As in, 'oh, he's marrying me because one day maybe he might love me'. So the confession scene goes a bit different. The non-edited version of it (not this one) will be posted along with the scrapped chapters, in case anyone is interested in reading that! Think of it as an alternate ending, haha
> 
> I'll be posting a separate work sometime today, I'll be naming it 'through the darkness, rise - scrapped' and I'll be making a series for it. So, if you're interested, keep your eyes open! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Come bother me on my tumblr!
> 
> https://louthegreatfurrry.tumblr.com/


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